The October Hollow
by Darkwing731
Summary: NEW VERSION. To conquer, they needed her. Caught in the darkness, Hermione is forced to make a choice that will cost her life, or everyone else's. It wasn't easy surviving this hell, but with Malfoy controlling her, she should've known what was happening.
1. New Moon Darkness

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Harry Potter and anything else from JK Rowling's world. It's all hers.

**This story was deleted, so it has been rewritten and now, reposted. **

All right, people. The only thing I have to say before this story starts is that **this is the new version.** Oldies, that means this is an ENTIRELY different story, but the same plot… so don't review ANYTHING about the ending. **New dialogue, new situations, new everything.** And newbies, sit back and enjoy the thing.

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**Story summary:** Two weeks before Halloween, Hermione puts an end to her pathetic relationship with Ron, only to find herself left in pieces and worse than before. Draco Malfoy taking advantage of this situation would never be a good thing, but kidnapping her too just makes matter worse. Caught in the clutches of Voldemort, a 14 day struggle to stay alive and fight her way out of the darkness leads to some interesting discovers, both of which frighten Hermione, and the rest of the world. And on one night, the decision is made, and the Dark Army can only laugh as the rest of the world crumbles at their feet with Hermione in tow. Betrayal and truth have hurt her more than anything, but it's only just the beginning for the rest of the world…

**Chapter summary**: Hermione Granger is sick and tired of turning the other cheek when Ron sneaks off to fool around with Lavender. When she confronts him about it, things turn out horribly wrong, and left in her most vulnerable state, Draco Malfoy comes along and latches down on his prey. Hermione isn't going to get away… not now, not ever.

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**The October Hollow  
By Darkwing731**

((--Chapter One--))  
New Moon Darkness

_**October 17**_

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_Where in the world could he be?_

Really, it was the dance that the seventh-years had been looking forward to all year, the girls obsessing over their dress robes for months and the boys nervously counting down the days to date-asking time, and her date was _missing_! Hermione would not stand for this, and the minute walked into the room he was going to be lectured all the way to Hell and back, and it wouldn't bother Hermione one bit.

Many people were already dancing, swaying to the music with arms wrapped around waists, fingers clasped on shoulders and in hands, gazes warm and smiles flirtatious. Not Hermione; she was downright livid. She had made these plans with Ron a _long_ time ago when the dance had been announced, and Ron _promised_ that he'd be there, be her date and dance and have fun.

Hermione pushed through the crowd, eyes narrowed and seeking out Harry Potter.

"Harry, have you seen Ron?" she growled, quite unable to hold in her anger. Harry looked taken aback.

"He told me he went outside to get some fresh air with you," he said, slightly confused. He unconsciously took a tiny step backward when Hermione tensed in anger.

"I've been waiting here, in this stupid frivolous dress for the past_ half_ _hour_, for him to come in and find me! When did he tell you this?" she demanded through clenched teeth.

"Erm, I dunno, err…" She glared at him while he sputtered, "…a h-half hour ago."

Hermione's hands were trembling in rage. "He's avoiding me, I know it. I'm going to find him, Harry, I'm sick of this!"

Hermione stormed through the crowd, which was filled with couples and friends chatting, watching the dancing and attempting to find a partner for the next song. Just as she reached the side doors that led out into the inky night, they opened.

Ron entered his shirt buttoned clumsily, and his hair mussed. He paled when he caught sight of Hermione, heading toward him with a positively furious expression on her face, but he looked worse than dead when Lavender Brown came through the doorway behind him and walked into the corridor. Her dress was wrinkled a bit, and her hair trailed down in strands, sticking to her sweaty forehead.

Hermione noticed the look Lavender tossed at Ron before she walked off, and the peculiar scent she had. There was the same odor coming from Ron, and she couldn't help but wonder if one really could smell dishonesty in the air…

"Where were you?" Hermione demanded, arms crossed, glaring at both her boyfriend and Lavender's retreating back.

"I, erm, was…outside…I-I just stepped back in, you saw me!" he stammered.

"What exactly were you doing?" Hermione wasn't stupid. She could sense Ron's unfaithfulness a meter away, and she was sick of turning the other cheek and pretending it was fine. She couldn't let him get away with it this time, not when it was so blatantly obvious.

"Getting fresh air," he said at once, avoiding her eyes.

"With Lavender?" Hermione said sharply, eyes narrowing.

"She, uh… she just, uh, happened to be out there," he mumbled. He glanced at her, flinching at her icy look. "We weren't doing anything!" he burst out.

"Not doing anything, were you?" Hermione snarled, looking pointedly down the corridor the other girl had disappeared down. She grabbed his arm and dragged him outside, where the frigid night immediately raised goose bumps on her arms.

She wanted to stay relatively close to Hogwarts because it was dark out, and the wind had her shivering even in her blinding anger. She wished she had her cloak, but currently it was hanging on a seat in the Great Hall, and she didn't dare leave Ron alone for even a second; the castle could hide him away easily.

She stalked past couples smothered against each other, bodies attached at the mouth and while she felt the instant need to tell them all to go to Hell, or just assign them all detention, she was silent. After all, Ron needed to be dealt with, and this issue with him would be ignored no longer.

Ron was tense, and he tried to jerk his arm from Hermione's steel grip as he stumbled after her, his voice a light whine of worry that was barely audible over the deep echo of pounding music.

By the lake, frost was already consuming the edges of the water and most of the grassy foothills that led into the mountains. By the time the neon lights that had been burning into her eyes had faded into the night, giving her a world of black and grey, green merely a color lurking in the back of her pupils as the nighttime world was etched into her mind like the bright moon. This was deepest night, and the darkness that enclosed Ron and Hermione would hold their secrets and their sorrows. Her anger might be heard, but the devastation because would go unseen; not even moonlight could betray her this night, and the absence of the large orange harvest moon in the distance, the old face staring back down at her, made the night darker than she could bear. Her fingers were webbed, it seemed, and her body was part of the harmonic background of colder colors, slowly seeping to blackness.

"Tell me what's going on," she demanded, her voice wavering, as she stopped by the lakeshore and turned to face him, causing him to nearly stumble to a halt.

A pause, then, "I don't know what you're talking about." Ron's words sounded badly rehearsed.

Hermione's head whipped toward him, eyes narrowing to slits.

"What in Merlin's name do you think I _am_, Ronald Weasley? I'm not stupid! I can see what's happening!" she screeched at him.

This was anger beyond anger. They had only been dating around since the middle of summer, but this betrayal… when had it started? When had she started to notice this, when Ginny's frown had suggested that she say something, but Hermione would ignore her, breezily moving on to a new subject? When had her trust in him fallen into pieces, leaving her with the coat that protected their relationship that was burning up before her eyes? Where was the love that was once so real?

She knew that this night was going to end it all, all that she had wanted and spent nights planning for and cried about when things went wrong. She knew that the anger—hurting so harshly that it brought tears to her eyes, blood to her cheeks, her jagged breathing sounding so loud that Ron was visibly cowering—would end it completely.

"There's nothing going on," he mumbled, drawing a few steps back, pulling his wrist from her grip at last. The whole way to the lake, she hadn't let go in fear that he would run away.

"Stop denying it, Ron! I'm not blind!" she yelled. This was too much; he was incredibly immature to keep hiding the truth from her. She knew that she could accuse him all she wanted, even if she walked in on him and Lavender, and he would still insist that her accusation was wrong.

"I'm—I'm not denying anything, Hermione," he said, still trying to take inconspicuous steps backwards.

She watched him through narrowed eyes. "You're fooling around with Lavender, Ron! I know it, and I've heard her and Parvati talk about it all the way until dawn too many times! I've practically caught you two more than once! _Why won't you just admit it_?" she hissed furiously at him.

He mumbled something, turning away from her for the first time without attempting to run away. Despite the blackness pressing onto her pupils, she could still faintly detect that his ears were turning red.

"Say it louder." Her voice trembled, but she needed to hear this.

"I-I didn't want to lose you," he whispered, swallowing the fear in his throat and looking back at her cautiously.

His words, although quieter than she had ever heard his voice before, echoed through her head, anchoring her feet to the ground as if cementing them. He didn't want to lose her, so he committed this—this _adultery_ instead? It made her clench her fists, and squeeze her eyes shut in frustration. Her breathing was hard; she was struggling to keep her rage at bay.

What kind of logic did Ron Weasley really live by? It wasn't like she hadn't known about his impaired judgment before, but instead, she had just started ignoring it, just like she had the whole…thing between Ron and Lavender. When she committed herself to him, didn't she try to wipe away all the negative things she knew about him, attempting to put him in the best possible light?

She knew that she had, and she knew it had been a huge mistake. She regretted that she was blinded by the novelty of their relationship, how wonderful it had been. She could never see enough of him, yet it appeared that he had tired of her, rather quickly.

Maybe that was why he moved on to Lavender: she was willing to offer Ron things that Hermione couldn't, that she _wouldn't_. The mere mention of premarital sex not only gained her sniff of contempt, she thought it something almost _evil_. You married your lover, the one who had you swooning and had you flying off your feet. And sex was something that everyone was supposed to share with someone _special_, someone that they loved and were willing to spend a lifetime with. If you thought about it, a lifetime was a very long time indeed. They had to be truly special for Hermione to share that part of herself with them.

Hermione loved Ron, and she always had. But because of the confident feeling that she loved him, she wanted to wait. She wasn't exactly sure if her talk of 'waiting' had angered him, but it had driven him away. Otherwise, she wouldn't have found him—thank God not literally—tangled in the sheets with Lavender Brown.

She hadn't realized that tears were falling; of frustration or something else, she didn't know. When she had opened her mouth to speak, she had licked her lips, and the salty taste had been there. She had been crying without even knowing it, and it made her chest seize up, her muscles contracting into a tight something that made it difficult to breathe, when she realized she was crying for _him_.

She didn't want to break up with him, not so suddenly. She had been in love with him all along, despite the sugar-coated lie that she knew was staring her in the face. This tension that was building up inside her—what was it? Anticipation? Dread? Could she be hoping that he'd confess and they'd live happily ever after, or would he tell her off and live that fairy tale ending with Lavender instead?

Her thoughts were so twisted, so tangled like webs, with what was going on, trying too hard to process that he was staring at her face shining with tears and moving towards her; so overflowing with depressing, anxious woes, that she couldn't even feel his arms around her.

"Hermione," he murmured into her hair. Her reluctant, strangled voice sounded suspiciously like a sob, but he couldn't be sure. He pulled her closely, ignoring the guilt washing over him. It was _his_ fault that her body was struggling not to shake, _his_ fault that her face, lips trembling and eyes clamped shut, was smothered into his shoulder.

And most importantly, it was _his_ fault for bringing all this upon her.

"I-I don't want—" But she had to stop. She couldn't go on. She wanted to stay with him, and make him promise his eternal loyalty, despite the fact that she could map out his escape routes to Lavender in the night when he was itching and needed a scratch. She knew he would continue on like he had been for what seemed like ages, barely making it back in time, but being overly relieved when she acted like nothing was going on.

She still wanted to live this lie, even though she knew that ultimately, it would hurt her incredibly. _Anything_ just to stay with him; she'd fight him, the pain, Lavender, the _world_, just to keep it all tied together. She wanted him, _needed_ him, and the desperate feeling to keep the mood positive tonight was going to be hard, she knew, but she was determined to do it.

"I-I still need you," she mumbled at last into his tear-stained shoulder. She hadn't realized how hard she had been crying those useless tears. And for what, so she could win his sympathy? So she could sway him out of sleeping with Lavender practically every other night? What was left to take from him, to change?

"I know," he said quietly. He held her closer and, despite his previous actions of utter fear (she was terrifying when she was livid), he sucked in a shuddering breath. His moments of mental practice would not come out exactly as he had planned, but would have the same overall effect.

"But I can't keep living this lie with you, Hermione."

The statement of his caused her to rear back her head and look up at him; her cheeks were stained and smudged, her lips chapped and parted. She looked confused, disbelieving. Had he really just spoken what she had silently forbade him to in her mind?

"Ron, don't." Her breath was quicker now, and her lips were pressed together in nervousness.

She couldn't understand how Ron could be brave like this with her, and so suddenly. He was nearly cowering at her feet when she had dragged him out here, so why was she at his mercy, instead of the other way around? Wasn't he supposed to be at her feet while her interrogation took its course, and all would be merry and bright afterwards?

Wasn't he?

"This is a lie, Hermione, you're right. We're falling apart," he said, voice shaking slightly.

"B-But we can work, I know it," she said, nearly begging, trying not to let her lip trembling or her eyes sting. Hermione clenched her jaw when they did; she couldn't cry over this, she had already shed too many tears. What use would it be? He had instigated the fight, and no matter what she did, she could only delay its course, not stop it.

"We can't," he argued softly. A strangled cough, which he suspected had originally been a sob, escaped her mouth.

She clutched his collar, squeezing her eyes together. This was too surreal, it just couldn't be happening. She would never let it happen, not tonight, not ever. And even if it was, she'd try desperately to change it somehow.

"I-I can change," she gasped out, trying to catch her breath. "We'll be like we were in the summer. I-I'll contribute more, I promise." He lowered his eyes to hers, and the fatalistic refusal in his eyes was evident.

"But you won't." He knew she wouldn't; Hermione would always remain the chaste, rule-abiding Head Girl she was now, and he suspected that when she married she would be just the same way. "I know you won't," he murmured, resisting the urge to look away.

"Lavender can't offer what I can!" she cried desperately. "I _love_ you, Ron! She's just a one-night stand who likes to romp around between the sheets!"

"She offers what you can't," he countered, surprised at how firm his words were. "She offers what you _won't_," he whispered.

Tears rimmed her eyes, though neither of them could tell if it was from fury or anguish. "Is that all you really want, Ron?" she asked her, her face twisted up in something close to disgust, disbelief. "Or are you so sick of me that you figure she'll liven up your life a little bit? Let's not forget that getting away with fooling around is so exciting," she said bitterly, sarcasm dripping from her voice.

"Hermione, the end of my leash was at my _collar_! I needed freedom, and what I could get from you wasn't good enough!"

Both of them were surprised at his outburst. This night was too confusing; she had him shaking as she threw every accusation at him, which he so far hadn't answered with a yes or no, but the path of the conversation verified her suspicions. And somehow, he had mustered the courage to make her cry before her usual demeanor had suddenly resurfaced, only to be suffocated again. These tricks he was playing, they were all too familiar, and she felt like he was the one under control, despite the proverbial rope she had around his neck.

"Ron," she started weakly. She would not degrade herself even further by hanging onto his jacket, so she made herself pry her fingers off and step back, away from him.

"I-I can't keep doing this, Hermione. I hate lying to you and enjoying myself at the same time. I hate not being able to feel like we did when we started dating. But I hate how screwed up this is—I'm not supposed to be the one doing this." He took a few steps away from her too, so that they were spaced many feet apart, so any bodily harm she wanted to do to him would give him a moment's notice to run.

"I would never cheat on you!" she screeched, eyes suddenly tearing up again. How could he accuse her of something as atrocious as _that_?

"I didn't mean that," he said quietly. Her anger faltered for a moment, and she hiccupped.

"What did you mean, then?" she asked cautiously. He cast his eyes downwards.

"Breaking up with you." She sucked in her breath rather sharply, staring at him in a stunned silence. "You were supposed to get so mad at me, and stop—_this_. You weren't supposed to promise to change, Hermione." He looked up at her. "You can't promise something that's impossible."

"But it's not!" she cried. "If I wanted to—to have _sex_ with you, I would!"

"Then why won't you?" he yelled, quite frustrated.

"B-Because I told you I wanted to wait, Ron! You never understood!"

"You're right, I didn't, and I still _don't_! You promise to change, and now you're yelling at me that you need to wait. You need to _listen_ to me Hermione, I'm not stupid. I know you can't change your morals, and I can't change mine! We aren't compatible!"

"Stop saying that!" she screamed at him. "There are other things to do, if not sleeping together!"

"But you're so damned prudish that you'd scoff at every one of them!" he shouted back.

When had her sadness turned to desperation, and his anxiousness to anger? What was this night doing to her? It was a common fact that any kind of social gathering, there would be at least one female hysterical by the end of the night, for any reason whatsoever. But what in Merlin's name possessed this night to choose _her_?

"Liar," she cried, though her body was quaking. She knew Ron was right, and so did he.

"No, Hermione, you're the liar," he said softly, his voice bitter. "You told me that you loved me… and how you've treated me isn't love."

"You're such a hypocrite!" she screamed. "You _cheated_ on me!"

"You denied me of the most important things when you're in love! That's just as bad!" he shouted.

She started to lunge at him in fury, but her frilled dress got caught around her ankles and she fell to the ground. Pushing her locks off of her sweaty face, she got up clumsily again, her ringlets of frizzy hair plastered to her forehead still.

"What we had was good, Ron. I deprived you of sex, the 'most important factor of love—'"

"It is!"

"—so you taint what we had with some whore!"

"Lavender isn't a whore, Hermione! She's fancied me since last year, and through the way you've treated me, it seems like she'd be much better."

Hermione gaped at him, too furious and too dumbstruck to sort one feeling out from another. She blinked several times, and closing her mouth resolutely she stuck out her chin.

It was bravado, and she knew this. She wasn't sure if Ron could tell or not, but she prayed to God that he couldn't.

"You know what, Ron?" she said, her voice oddly calm. She could feel her muscles tense, and her throat was steadily closing up. She needed to say this before she had to stifle the sobs again.

"Go be with Lavender. Make her bloody _ecstatic_. Just don't come crawling back to me in the end, got it? If you're going to be like this, I don't need it. It really hurts to do this when I think about it, but if you're going to treat me like shit—" He gaped: Hermione _never_ swore; "—then you can get yourself into some with Lavender."

She couldn't exactly view his reaction to her statement; perhaps it was the rage flowing through her body. Fury was building up slowly in her veins, and her arms were steadily being deprived of feeling as numbness spread over her nerves and filled her flesh with icy fire. Her fingers tingled, and suddenly she felt like she could lunge at him, close her fingers around his throat and burn him to death.

Hermione had never like Lavender all that much. She gossiped, never did her homework and was constantly swooning over a boy whose identity changed every three weeks. She cared too much for her looks; every morning Hermione had to rush to wake up and then hustle in and out of the bathroom because Lavender insisted on special treatment to her face, hair, everything, and it drove Hermione bloody bonkers.

And the fact that she had Ron wrapped around her finger made Hermione all the more furious. Lavender was never supposed to be part of the picture, yet here she was, shoving Hermione out of the frame.

It burned up her arms and swelled in her chest, and Hermione couldn't remember the pain of this entire confrontation hurting so badly. Stabbing pains shot up her arms, pausing for second to give her a false relief before they struck again like lightning. Little bolts of white-hot electricity flowed from her veins and consumed her fingers, making her press her nails into her palms in agony.

She couldn't remember falling to the ground, or starting to cry again, but when the pain finally subsided and all that was left was a throbbing, dull ache, she found herself pressed against the cold, frostbitten earth.

Weakly, she pushed herself up, her arms like glass about to shatter under her own weight. She hastily wiped the tears from her cheeks, keeping her eyes to the ground. Her lips were trembling again, and she knew that if she looked up at Ron her crying would start, and would not cease.

"Hermione—"

"Just go, Ron," she interrupted bitterly. "_Just go_."

She watched his feet for a moment; he shifted his weight, and slowly, turned and started retreating until the night consumed him, and she could see him no longer.

She cupped her cheeks, struggling to keep her breath steady. She had to keep control, for if she didn't she'd betray herself. She didn't _need_ Ron; all he did was make her feel degraded, like one of those poor house elves, and someone like that didn't deserve to be with her.

She was better off without him, she knew, and she had to put a stop to the furious, heartbroken protest that the rest of her body was shouting. Honestly, if someone she loved _so much_ would do something like that to her, did she _really_ want to be with him still? Did she _really_ want to continue on with life knowing what he was doing?

After all, she knew watching it before her eyes and not being able to do a damn thing about it would hurt her much more than it did now.

She sat up, rather clumsily, and pushed against her knees to stand, but couldn't manage to get up. Even though it was the only thing she couldn't do successfully at the moment, it made her burst straight into tears.

She had gone and messed up the rest of her life, the rest of her friendships and the rest of… what was alive for Ron. She _loved_ him; didn't that mean _anything_ to him? But no; she had failed in keeping it together, keeping it alive, and it struck her down like an axe to the back of her knees.

She tried desperately to stop crying, tried to tell herself that she didn't need to because he wasn't worth it, but her emotions wouldn't stop raging. Ron was gone for _good_, and she knew that he wasn't going to come back anytime soon.

She just wanted to slit her own wrists and die on the spot; being with Ronald Weasley had been the best times of her life, and even though the fights they had gotten into, despite Lavender rearing her hatefully pretty head into their relationship, she and Ron had some fond memories that would make her chest pang, should she recall them. And she didn't want to, not right now, not ever.

She wanted the mere memory of him out of her head this instant; even thinking about the good times would bring her rushing headfirst into her own crying fits again.

"_Ouch_."

Putting aside the fact that she was still bawling her eyes out while trying to keep her emotions under control, the surprise, the fury that rose up out of her was almost instant. The echoes of her own sobs stopped, and she turned to stone as _that_ voice, the sarcastic, spiteful drawl she could recognize in an instant spoke again.

"Really, you'd think Brown was a goddess or something. She's really not even that good in bed, to tell you the truth," Malfoy said offhandedly.

Hermione was standing and staggering like a drunk before he could blink, and she regained her balance quickly.

She was, quite frankly, upset that he had been around long enough to hear about Lavender; that meant he had heard practically the _entire_ row between her and Ron. And here she was, unstable and looking like someone had died, she had been crying so much. Had there ever been a larger opportunity for him to jeer at her, to smirk in delight as he planned out his blackmail?

She hurriedly wiped her cheeks and eyes, rubbing her nose and pushing the unruly hair behind her ears; it stuck to her forehead in spite of her actions. Her dress was crumpled, covered in dirt and mud and bits of rubbish that had held onto the fabric from the ground.

"What do you want, Malfoy?" Her voice was thick, and it sounded as if she had a head cold. She winced at this obvious giveaway; she sounded like a wreck, and both of them knew that she was at the moment.

Hermione stepped back when he appeared out of the darkness. She couldn't see him before, only having heard his stupid voice. His figure was outlined in the darkness despite the black suit he was wearing.

She couldn't help but wonder where Malfoy, the worst Head Boy she had ever seen, had been before, and what he had been doing.

"Poor, poor Granger. I think we all knew this moment was coming, didn't we?" he commented idly, his words dripping with mock curiosity. Hermione narrowed her eyes at him.

"Just _sod off_, Malfoy," she hissed, her jaw clenched. "I don't need your oh-so-precious thoughts on what just happened, all right?"

"But why ever not?" Malfoy questioned, putting a hand to his chest and trying to appear sincerely hurt. "It's not like _I'm_ the one telling lies. I'm not your dearest boyfriend—_whoops_, my mistake." He smirked at her cringe; he was going to keep bringing the tender subject up, and Hermione would have none of this.

"I'm leaving," she growled. She didn't want to stay here with Malfoy where he could see her hurt expression even in the fathomless darkness.

She started to storm away, but she hadn't gotten very far when Malfoy's fingers encircled her wrist, digging his fingernails into her skin, and with a yelp of surprise she was flung to the ground. He stood over her, towering against the blackness of the sky, and by what she could make out from the starlight he was sneering at her viciously.

"I wasn't done talking to you, Mudblood," he spat. He grabbed her arm and yanked her up so hard that she whimpered. She stumbled once on her feet, and wrenched her arm out of his grasp.

"Don't you _dare_ put a finger on me, you stupid prat," she snarled. "And I don't care if you were talking to me or not—I've got duties to supervise the dance that is currently happening _inside_ the castle. And so do you! So kindly refrain from touching me at _all_ and shove _out_ of my business."

She folded her arms defiantly across her chest, stuck out her chin and walked away. She knew he wouldn't grab her again—but he didn't need to stop her physically.

"You'll look like a fool, Granger," he said to her as she walked on. She slowed considerably. "Walking in all alone when everyone and their aunts have heard you screaming at Weasel and bawling your eyes out."

She stopped, heart thudding against her chest. His statement was true, and she didn't like to acknowledge that Malfoy was correct about something for once.

"They'll all be staring at you, and you'll sit in a chair, all by yourself and you won't dance, and by the end of the evening you'll still be stag and looking miserable," he called; she could hear the malice behind the nonchalance in his voice.

She turned around, her fists shaking, but her head streaming with thoughts.

"Congratulations, Malfoy, you kept me from going inside. I don't see how that's a terribly good victory, but if it helps you sleep at night, then bully for you. I can just go back to my quarters and tell the Headmaster I'm sick, he'd believe me. Now, unless you've a particular reason to keep insulting me, I'm _leaving_." She let out a hard breath, and turned back around again.

"You're going to cry yourself to sleep if you go back inside, you know."

She whipped around. "What do you _want_, Malfoy! Why do you keep acting like you bloody care what I'll be doing the moment I walk away from you?" she screamed at him.

"I'm just delaying your pain, is all," he said quietly. She was silent for a moment, rather stunned at the unexpectedness of his statement, and pondered its possible implications.

"No you aren't," she said after a moment; "You're just making it worse." She turned away abruptly from him; her face was twisting up, and she fought to shove any mention or thought of Ron back into the corners of her mind.

"I'm telling you what will happen; knowing how to stop it would give you an advantage, wouldn't it?" he told her. She remained silent. "I'm just trying to help you out, Granger."

"Why?" she demanded instantly, back stiffening.

"No one likes to see you cry, Granger." He paused for a moment. "Especially not me," he murmured.

Hermione could've fallen over. Unless she was going deaf, she definitely heard what he had said. These words of his summoned up her immediate suspicions; it was obviously insincere, but he would never go and actually say that to her unless there was something to be gained in the end. She was curious, to admit, and even though his words shocked her, she couldn't help but try to determine his motivation.

She took a careful step toward him, brushing her eyes as if she had been crying. The tears that had been there previously… well, they were only momentary and she pushed them back. But she gave a little sniff and stared at him.

"Malfoy? What—?" she started, falling off abruptly. She wasn't so good with subtlety, but she was going to give this a shot.

"Weasley was bound to hurt you, you know that?" he said softly, almost gently, moving forward to her. His voice was different, trained. It sounded as if he was accustomed to using it on females he was seducing.

The thought that he was trying to seduce her almost sent her into giggles, but she bit her lip and forced the amusing thought out of her mind.

"I g-guess I did," she agreed quietly, trying to figure out the direction he was going. He stopped a few feet away and looked at her. She looked down at the ground, away from his steely gaze.

"How does it feel," he questioned, "to know that you still love him, but you'll never be able to be with him again? How does it feel to know that you'll be watching him snog the daylights out of Brown, always imagining yourself in her place?"

_That_ certainly struck the nail on the head. Hermione's face twisted up, in anger and in pain, and she wanted to yell that she knew what he was doing and run away. But she couldn't; she tried to keep holding onto the fact that Malfoy most likely did this to make her cry and distract her, and _damn him_, it was working.

_He's tricking you!—He's right though… Ron and Lavender…Ignore it! Stop! He'll… he'll be so happy with her… he might fall in love with her, and I…I…_

When had she fallen? When had her knees buckled, resulting in damp stains on her knees? She couldn't remember picturing Ron and Lavender attacking each other playfully, ending up in kissing and the exchanges of "I love you" from both of them. God, it hurt _so bad_ for her to realize and to know that _she_ would never have that again with Ron… that she wouldn't _ever_ have it again _at all_.

Malfoy was standing next to her, looking down on her crumbling emotions. She pushed herself up, swaying, and hit him halfheartedly in the chest.

"Why did you say that?" she sobbed, her face crinkled and twisted, trying fruitlessly to stop the tears. "Why did you have to say that, you bloody prat?" she whispered.

He remained silent, but took her by the shoulders and pulled her closer, pushing her face gently into his shoulder. She fought him, only for a moment, before the comfort of another human being washed over her and she gave in.

She managed to stifle her sobs eventually, and tears silently slipped down her cheeks.

"You're such a bastard, Malfoy," she mumbled into his shoulder; it was ironic, however, because she was still clutching him, and he was holding her like a lover. It scared her to recognize this, but there was no other way to describe it.

He chuckled, running a caressing hand over her hair and laying it on her shoulder. "You're grateful for this, Granger," he whispered.

"You're taking advantage of me, Malfoy," she retorted in a muffled voice. He gave a little shrug.

"So I am; it wouldn't be the first time, would it?" he asked, though rhetorically. He wrapped his arms tighter around her back, and she started to squirm out of his grasp again.

"Don't fight me, Granger, you want this." He was answered with a little scoff. "We _both_ want this."

"You're sick," she cried, pulling away from his arms. His expression turned stony, his eyes cold and hard.

"And you're beautiful." His voice was colorless and calm, dangerous even. He slowly withdrew his wand from inside his suit and pointed it steadily at her, his face detached and hard.

She was silent, taut and rigid at being so defenseless. The leftover tears were still trickling down her face, her cheeks slowly freezing, and her breathing was jagged and shallow through her open mouth. Another tear or two slid down her cheeks, and he walked to her.

She was petrified, frankly. What he had done to hurt her that night not only angered the living _hell_ out of her, but scared the living hell out of her too. Draco Malfoy was always the stupid, snot-nosed jerk who lived to make fun of her and look down on her, Harry and Ron in the most condescending way he could. There was always something to ridicule about them whenever Malfoy was around, and it had somehow always hurt.

But never… _never_ had he been like _this_. His wand was under her throat, and the way he was holding himself, so rigidly, made him seem as if he was dying to pounce on her, but withheld himself.

And she didn't like this situation, suddenly. She was wandless (why did she think nothing bad would come of this dance, so she was lured into the security that her wand was not needed?), at his mercy, and all of a sudden he seemed a lot more dangerous than he ever had before. His words dressed him up to seem like one who lurked in the shadows, waiting, wanting to jump out and clamp down on the neck of an innocent for the sheer pleasure of their terror. Or was it just for the sheer pleasure of hurting something, someone, he had been stalking?

_Was_ he stalking her?

"P-Put the wand down, Malfoy," she instructed shakily. His eyes narrowed, and he thrust the tip deeper into her throat. She whimpered and jerked backwards, and in a rush she was toppling over and scrambling to run at her moment of freedom.

The night was so deep with blackness that she had no idea where she was going; _curse_ the moon for being new, she could've used moonlight to manage her way around on this night. Instead, she was stumbling around like a blind woman, her nerves icy and fear screaming from her body.

She didn't know what was happening, how she had managed to escape from him unharmed. She ran as fast as she could, eyes bright with fear and her body alive and taut with terror. There was an angry cry, and the next moment he had an arm around her neck and was slowly applying more and more pressure. A sinewy, clenched hand and wrist appeared before her, and she could feel his muscles tighten.

"_M-Malfoy__ stop_!" she gasped, her fingers clawing at his arm, her vision clouding up, her whole body spinning out of control and falling into the black abyss that welcomed her. She fought to push the gray out of her eyes, the fog out of her brain and the welcome emptiness through her sore body, but it wasn't working.

Her body was limp, and slowly her scratching hands stopped clawing and fell, hanging loosely at her sides, swinging like the boneless arms of a puppet with no master. Her muscles relaxed, and her body was slumped against his, using his structure as a support to keep off of the damp, icy ground.

He removed his arm, and caught her before she could fall completely. She was slumped in what looked like an uncomfortable position, and he hitched her up and shifted her body. Her eyes were fluttering, gradually stopping, and her will to stay conscious dissipated as her eyes closed. Her lips were chapped and parted, and he could still hear her breathing shallowly until she lay still in his arms.

He brushed a lock of hair off of her forehead, and held her properly. He observed her face, impassive and calm, and he could feel the need to let his eyes roam when she was in such a vulnerable state. But this time would come later… he would be granted the privilege, and _Merlin_ would he enjoy it.

Casting a wary look around, he cradled her in a coldly professional manner and slipped through the darkness into the Forbidden Forest, from which he would not return, not tonight, and hopefully, not ever.

_**-  
-x-x-x-  
-**_

**Author's Note: **Well, that's it! The first chapter of the REVAMPED story! I hope you liked, and if you did, I'd appreciate a review.

Anyone who's read this, I don't really expect you to know the differences or spot major changes, except for the fact that this is much more _updated_ than the last one. I don't mean like I put up new chapters, but it's a piece of _good_ work, instead of my first story that went incredibly good.

This story wouldn't have gone so well without the help of **Folk, my AWESOME beta.** She is a great friend, and people, she's got some good stories out too, SO CHECK THEM OUT!

So people, **please review! **


	2. Trapped

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Harry Potter, just this plot.

Hmm, last time I forgot to mention that this story **is entirely pre-HBP**. There are little things that relate to the sixth book, but they don't exactly screw up the plot or make it better. Like Lavender and Ron. Yeah. Yah saw that, you knew it was from HBP… right?

And the numbers and dates on the page… get used to those.

**Chapter Summary:** Hermione wakes, ever so slowly, and it takes her just the right amount of fear to shock her into tremors, before some vile thing is shoved down her throat, and the world as she knew it was reduced to a mere trickle in which she could not understand. The horrible pain in her fingers and arms won't go away, no matter what, and even with the aftereffect of the potion worn off, she is still in pain. Malfoy, however, does not make her day any better.

**The October Hollow  
By Darkwing731**

((--Chapter Two--))  
Trapped

-

_**Sunday, October 18  
Day One**_

_Casting a wary look around, he cradled her in a coldly professional manner and slipped through the darkness into the Forbidden Forest, from which he would not return, not tonight, and, hopefully, not ever. _

Fog had settled itself over her mind like a quilt, and it was harder to push it away than to give into the welcoming sleep that it held. It was creeping in out slowly, and she felt like she should let it take over, let it wash all her troubles and pains away so she could fall back into sweet sleep.

But she awoke, very slowly, very groggily and tired. She couldn't recall what she had done before she had gone up to bed—had she even bathed? Had she rowed with Ron _again_? She clenched her eyes together, trying to extract any kind of memory from the night before that would explain why she felt so terrible.

Her body was aching: muscles tied in knots, sore, red-hot, and throbbing under her skin. Sleep was still woven into her mind, and she was floating in and out of consciousness, attempting to muster up the strength and energy to start thinking.

She felt like she had a hangover—not that she actually _knew_ what a hangover felt like, but everything was fuzzy and her head was pounding. Her blood was hot and burning through her veins, and she felt like grime and sweat was covering her whole body.

God, everything just _hurt_. Her legs were sore, her arms were sore; her neck was aching. All her joints, every single one, felt as if someone had tied rope around them, making it impossible for them to move, cutting off all circulation. Her fingers were itching to be cracked, and right now, all she wanted was a long, hot soothing bath.

Squeezing her eyes together and shifting around, she groaned, wanting nothing more than to curl up again and tumble back into her painless, black and dream-infested world. She twisted on her back a bit too much, which resulted in a strangled sort of dry sob.

Her movements, although short, were slowed as the rest of her mind and body woke up. Only her mind was fully awake now, and all she was waiting for was the migraine to leave her, and the muscles to relax enough so she could splurge on a nice long bath.

Eyelids fluttering and heavy, she attempted to open her eyes, blinking hard at the sleep and the weight. She thought that maybe they had protested and glued themselves shut, because everything was still black and fuzzy as it had been before.

But she kept blinking, everything awakening with her mind, and she _knew_ that her eyes were open. Still she stared into the darkness beyond her eyes, and everything was faded and washed away; the neon patterns that had been pressed to her retina were dim.

Her eyes were open, but she could not see.

She let out a noise of confusion, letting out a stream of words that came out muffled and suppressed. It was then, as she pressed her tongue against her lips, that she realized— her heart was now screaming in her ears and slamming against her chest, dying to burst forth suddenly—that something was tied around her, holding her down, stopping her from talking, even moving.

As soon as she wrenched her hands forward, they were jerked back and throbbing in pain. She let out a muffled scream as her body jolted back and forth, discovering the restraints on all parts of her body, tight and bruising and coarse, holding her down and refusing to let her go.

There was something tied around her eyes, and a gag pulled even tighter around her mouth. She was pinned to something by rope, grinding into her skin like sandpaper and cutting up her flesh.

Everything was on fire now; blood gushed through her, life pounding in her veins, furious and painful, gathering at her wrists and fingertips and making her clench her hands in agony. She tugged furiously, relentlessly, at the rope, all caution thrown to the wind as she yelled—the sound muffled—for help, trying to calm her racing heart, trying to fight back the nausea that was climbing up her throat.

She was tied down, blinded, gagged and terrified. She had absolutely no idea what happened, how or why she was there. Her mind was racing too fast; her thoughts blurred together in one panicking stream of colors.

The noise that came suddenly was glorious to her ears; she was positive she had heard low voices, hushed, cautious voices, and her frightened screams turned to desperate, pleading mews.

Things were happening too fast, and when her head was suddenly knocked to the side and the gag pulled from her mouth, a fist ramming into her jaw, she started pleading for help, her voice trembling and smeared into one huge confusing noise.

Laughter, there was laughter. Talking, words that were spoken so quickly, so quietly that she couldn't understand them, but she could hear the cruelty, the jeering _mockery_ behind their laughter. She let out another scared, desperate sob for the help that was hovering about her—perhaps there was another too? Why would this one person talk to themselves, but receive an answer in turn? Her sob was answered by dark chortles.

Liquid poured into her mouth and down the sides of her face, dripping back into her throat and making her choke; her breath caught, and with a suffocated cough she spat it out. An angry noise, followed by the only words she had so far to comprehend; "Come _on_ Draco, just shove it in her mouth!" before there was glass and a substance tasting so foul that she gagged, coughing it right back up, wrenching her head away from the vial.

Strong fingers clenched her jaw in a painful grip, pressing fingernails holding her mouth still. She voiced a weak protest, but in a moment the vial was shoved down again, liquid spilling over her determinedly-closed mouth, sliding down her cheeks and into her hair like rain.

Hands tried to pry open her mouth, but she fought viciously. Whoever the _hell_ these people were, they were not thrusting some random potion that she had not yet recognized nor _approved_ of down her throat. The hold on her face had been painful and steely, and she certainly thought that was rude.

A hand plugged her nose, a trick that she knew would eventually come. More words of impatience, a growl from the captor above her, and everything in her mind was starting to dim and fade, color-sparking grey seeping into the inky blackness she was staring into. At length she opened her mouth, but jerked her head to the side; it was like a bucket had been poured on her, for the liquid she knew they wanted her to drink went splashing about her face and neck.

"If you drink it, we'll set you free." The whisper in her ear sent shivers up her spine; stupidly she began to protest, and in went the vial. Her captor wasn't foolish this time; he held her head firmly in place, sitting himself atop her squirming body, and holding her nose.

She only had two choices: chug the potion, or die.

Technically, she knew she wouldn't die, but she would pass out, and they could easily feed her whatever liquid it was in her sleep, not giving her a chance to defend herself.

She refused to drink it. She had no idea of their intentions, and if they were bad, chances were that the potion would aid them in hurting her.

It was pooling at the back of her throat, slipping past the barrier that kept it in her mouth, making her gag but shove what little air she was holding her in lungs. Her body tensed, and the will to do anything to breathe, to keep awake and to keep _alive_ burst forth in her chest, and she did what she promised she wouldn't.

The potion had been foul-tasting to begin with, but settling in her stomach brought bile to her throat immediately. Coughing out the few droplets that had remained, she sucked in as much breath as she could, gasping like a fish out of water, heaving and coughing.

The weight that was on her was now off, and the noises started again. Laughing, dark laughter, she knew, and appreciative, possibly boasting, tones. Movement, followed by a question that was answered with silence, and then a single syllable. She vaguely wondered why she couldn't comprehend language.

Hands were at her wrists and ankles, by her sides and legs, and the trickle of cold air flowed over the skin that had been rubbed raw by the rope was free and exposed to the air. A hand was behind her head, on the back of her neck, and the cloth was pulled from her chin.

And slowly, tantalizingly slowly, her blindfold was taken away, and she clamped her eyes shut, bright lights shining through to her pupils. But she had to get used to it, and quickly; these people had succeeded in making her drink the potion and she had to be on her feet and alert before its side affects kicked in.

Getting used to the light, she found the room was actually very dim. She couldn't make head or tail of anything, and by the time she realized she had rolled off the bed, attempting to stand, she was stumbling head first into the wall, groaning, sliding down to the floor.

A terrible fatigue was washing over her, her eyelids heavy and fighting to stay open. She tried to stand again, her movements slow and drunken, and she peered through hazy eyes and mind at two people—tall, broad shouldered, standing still and watching her, their wands out, their bodies poised, waiting for her to make some sudden movement. They had no features, and the image of them slid in and out of focus. She staggered forward a few steps, and abruptly fell to her knees, looking up at them, everything sluggish and confusing.

She realized, after a long moment of looking at them, that they were wearing cloaks, long black ones. Out of the two, one of them had a gleaming white face, twisted and snarling in a sneer.

For a moment, she gaped at this one person, amazed at how contorted and strange his face could look, before she understood it was a mask. It took an amazingly long time for her brain to process this, and by that time, she was looking at the other in a curious fashion, noting that his features were drowned by the shadows of his hood. She could feel her mouth gaping open, but her body had gone numb and slack. The potion that they had force-fed her slowed everything down in her mind to a mere trickle.

Her hands fumbled around her knees, and like a baby attempting to walk, she clumsily pushed herself to her feet, tripping over her ankles and falling forward suddenly; her hands fisted around a bunch of cloth as she staggered into someone's knees. She buried her face in the dark cloth for a moment, before reaching up slowly and grabbing at the collar. She pulled, and like a puppet on a string, the person bowed over as the cloth constricted.

A gurgle rose in her throat for a moment as she looked at the hooded figure, and with jittery fingers she reached over, flapping her hands, and pulled the cloak from over his face. There was no mask present, so his bare flesh was presented to her, and despite the block of logic, common sense, _everything_ in her mind, she understood.

"_You_!"

Her voice came out hoarse and slurring, but nevertheless, her eyes widened and she released the hold she had on him, immediately falling backwards as she lost her balance. She sat on her rump, blinking in a confused manner for a long while at him.

And he stared back, pushing a few of the wispy strands of whitish blonde hair back behind his ears, the slightest of smirks pulling at his lips. He turned and exchanged a look with his companion, silver eyes gleaming in a sort of twisted delight.

Even with the slow traffic consuming her mind, there was no doubt in the fog that she had seen—no, a lie—that she _knew_ this fellow. She knew him, and the feeling that was suddenly burning her up was so strong, so passionate—_hate_. She could feel detest and dislike rip over her flesh and send a shudder through her.

Hatred burning in her fingertips, gathering behind her palms, and suddenly the noise in her head was so loud—_make it stop so loud its killing me_—drilling bolts from the inside of her skull, pushing needles through her temples and sending fiery waves of pain through her eyes. She let out a scream, clutching her head to her knees and trying to push down the vomit that was rising, tried to push away the pain that was sweeping over her body like an unstoppable front of icy fire.

_-x-x-x-_

She couldn't remember feeling this horrible since—well, _ever_. Even with her eyes securely closed and stuffed onto something that blackened her vision, light still shone through from somewhere in her mind; throbbing waves of light, pulsing and beating against her skull, made her want to scream out in protest. She wasn't moving, but oh _Merlin_ how badly it ached. Each limb was stiff with pain; even shifting the slightest bit sent tremors shooting through her, and when the rest of her body tensed, her cranium pounded with terrible pain that coerced her into grabbing her head in attempt to soothe it—a huge mistake.

A ripple went across her body, and everything was numb at first. And then, all at once, an awful burning sensation rose up from the depths of her chest in a fiery wave, crashing over and sending fire through her veins.

She groaned in fatigue, wishing that whatever the _hell_ she had taken last night would lay off for just a _moment_ so she could grab her wand and magic the pain away. She groped around for her wand, and upon finding nothing, she wearily rubbed her eyes, blinking away the stabbing pains that followed her movements.

Slowly, eyelids cracked open, and the dim light of the room flooded in, sending her back to turmoil and torture. She moaned out, squeezing her eyes shut before forcing herself to open them. It would only get better when she found her wand, and she couldn't very well do that with her eyes closed, now could she?

But when she was blinking steadily, she was _sure_ that her eyes were still closed, that she was still dreaming and this nightmare she had been thrown into was still playing before her eyes. No white ceiling was met, no cedar bed-stands, no bookcases, _nothing_. Only the hard, chipped rock that surrounded her from everywhere, and the flickering torch situated somewhere off to her right, casting shadows over her.

Blind panic rushed into her as suddenly she was filled with vigor to rub her eyes harder, _harder_, to make this awful vision go away.

It wouldn't. Dear God, she was either hallucinating or caught in some twisted place or nightmare that she could not escape from. No amount of blinking or poking herself would awake her from the terror that was slowly overcoming her, and nothing could relieve her of the chaotic fear that was filling her mind, sending messages jostling through her, putting _everything_ on hold so she could get up, get out and get _home_.

She scrambled up, falling over the side of the cushioning she was laying on, and ran head-first into the wall, seeing if the impact would wake her up, or send this wall in her dream crashing into a million pieces.

It did neither; instead she found herself wailing on the floor, blood dripping from somewhere behind her ear.

She clutched her head, deeming her actions a terribly stupid move, and tried vainly to stand up. She could move, but her legs refused to support her weight, and she was left slumped against the wall, groaning and trying to stand up.

"_Help_," she called out weakly, and even the sound of her own voice sent anguish through her veins again. Hot, blinding needles gathered in her fingertips, feathery pain blooming up her arms. "Oh God… _please_."

God, _why_ was it hurting her _this bad_? Never before had the pain gathered in such random spots, and nursing her own wounds hurt her more than anything because her fingers were hotter than any fire, and her arms were pricking into her veins, into her _soul_ and causing all this…this _nonsense._ It send steaming blood rushing up to her chest, tightening, constricting, _fighting _to let go and free itself from the prison called her body. She mewed painfully into the crook of her elbow and sobbed at her own weakness.

"Well well… look at you, Granger. You're an awful mess." Drawling, sneering, silky and dangerous. _Him_.

_Malfoy_.

She let out an angry noise, but did nothing more than out again as needles pushed up and broke each pore of her skin.

"Look at you," he said quietly, though his tone was anything but kind; "You can't even move to defend yourself."

"_Shut up_!" she snarled at him suddenly, mustering energy she didn't know she had and shoving her back up against the wall. Blood rushed to her head, and she blinked drowsily for a moment, drunk from the pain before she adapted.

"Still witty, I see." His tone was amused and sarcastic, but it had always been.

"Still a coward, I see," she shot back. "Reducing yourself to a painful concoction to hurt your enemies. Really, has using Daddy's power to threaten people becoming too confusing for you?" She glared at him, carefully reaching back and touching her head. It had stopped bleeding, and she could feel a thin scab forming.

His face twisted in a snarl, but an angry noise was his only response. He took a solid moment to regain his calmed posture, and crossed his arms over his chest. His wand was moving fluidly between his knuckles, and she watched the sliver of wood like a starving child would glare hungrily at a piece of meat.

He smirked, knowing perfectly well that she wanted the wand, wanted to hex the living hell out of him and turn him into the Headmaster. But no; too many things had been put at risk; so many precautions had been made and checked obsessively. If anyone came out of this situation alive, the only one looking guilty would be the Mudblood herself.

They looked at each other for a moment—glared icily as if by gaze alone they could rip each other to shreds—before Malfoy opened his mouth and began to speak.

"So Mudblood," he sneered. "Have any idea where you are?"

He smiled cruelly as her body tensed; she winced in pain, but she was alert and wary.

"No," she snarled reluctantly. "And these guessing games you'll be playing with me? Well, count me _out_, Ferret-Boy. I'm not begging for the little scraps of information. I'm not a _dog_."

"Really? You're a bitch if I ever met one," he answered smoothly. She cast the ground an angry look, and he knew that she was hitting herself mentally for walking into such an easy trap.

"I'm almost positive _you_ know exactly what a bitch is, Malfoy. I mean, look at your mother, why don't you?" She grinned triumphantly at the furious look on his face.

With an audible snarl, he whipped out his wand and nearly lunged at her. She smiled at him coldly, knowing that she had the upper hand in this conversation.

_Weakling_, she thought happily. He was easily bothered and… she liked that.

"Keep it up, Granger," he said softly, his silver eyes narrowed. "You'll just waste away in here, going crazy and ripping that bushy hair out because you don't have a bloody book and you don't know where the hell you are or why the hell you're here."

She ripped her eyes away from his intense look at studied the ground for a moment, thinking hard. All that information, it was bait that she was _so_ tempted to take, but the moment she did he would mock her ignorance of the situation. It would continue happening, so what was the use of even attempting to snatch at it?

"You kidnapped me," she stated suddenly. "You knocked me out and you bloody _kidnapped _me. What in Merlin's name is _wrong _with you?" she cried at him.

His lips upturned in a mocking smile, and he leered at her. "Congratulations for this _astounding_ fact that I wasn't aware of. And there isn't anything wrong with me, or anyone else. It was simply… _orders_."

"From whom?" she snarled. "Your pathetic father?"

"No," he answered calmly. "The Dark Lord."

She had thought that, when she had woken up in this terrible place, aching, cold and confused, she had been petrified. Hearing the mention of the Dark Lord Voldemort really hadn't awoken any new fears in her heart. Harry had been immune to it, and in time, so had she. But the fact that people as young as _students_, as young as _Malfoy_ were doing his bidding, and with _pleasure_, struck a very deep chord. She had been taken by someone _her own age_ because Voldemort had _told_ him too; it was appalling and terrifying at the same time, surreal even. If he was _this_ powerful as to summon teenagers to do his dirty work, or cowardly enough to do the same, then the Lord Voldemort she had heard about since she was eleven had drastically changed. Sure, Slytherins were basic supporters, but that was the major cliché. Hermione tried not to stereotype them… but it was too hard not to.

But to have those children who had Death Eater parents working _alongside_ them was just _disturbing_. Voldemort either needed more followers and more power, and had recruited the young generation, or he had offered more to his followers that appealed to them greatly, and they didn't give a second thought as their pitiful lives were thrown into the wind _just_ so they could bow down to a murdering _hypocrite. _

But _what_—God, now that was her main concern—what the _hell_ did Voldemort want with her? The first thing that rang through her mind was _Harry Potter_. She was no idiot, and Hermione knew that her being there was most likely because of Harry. She had always known that, at one point or another, Harry's friends would be on the line, and both Hermione and Ron would be willing martyrs for the cause that was ridding the world of Voldemort.

That final thought and decision crossing her mind, her body released its tension, and she found that she was a tad calmer. She was here because of her close relationship with Harry Potter, and even though an outsider would hold this against him, Hermione would not. She clearly knew the benefits and dangers of befriending him, and hell, she didn't care. She loved him like family, and there was _nothing_ that she wouldn't do for his cause.

"Interesting," she said after a long pause, swallowing the lump in her throat. "This is because of Harry, I presume."

Malfoy gave a little laughing scoff. "Assume as you wish, Mudblood." The insult made no dent on her armor anymore. She was immune to the stupid little word, and no longer did it really mean anything to her.

But still, the matter at hand was left unquestioned. Malfoy, as usual, had evaded answering by simply lording his power over her and sneering about it at the same time. God, _why_ was he always such a little prick? If he had ever attempted to put his intelligence to use, he might've been a person to match her wit. Instead, he was an insufferable prat who was mysteriously Head Boy (it had been glued into her mind to ask Dumbledore '_What the hell were you thinking!_' at one point or another) and still lording his power over everybody.

Go figure.

And still, it worried her to think about it. Obviously she was there in that dingy little place, exhausted and aching, because of Harry freaking Potter. Why couldn't Malfoy just verify that stupid little fact for her so she could relax and concern herself with means of escape? Was the stupid bugger _trying_ to make her as bothered as this?

_Yes,_ was her immediate answer, but how in the world could Malfoy know that this unanswered question would drive her mad?

Because _she_ was Hermione Granger, know-it-all goodie, and for every little thing she didn't know about, she high-tailed it to the library, looked it up and learned the answer so that the one thing she _didn't_ know wouldn't bother her anymore.

And Malfoy knew that. Hell, _everyone _knew that.

He was doing it on purpose then, she concluded. He knew it would bother her if he left her wondering all about it, so he had done it to see her squirm around in worry. Besides, _was _there another answer? _No_! Besides being so close to Harry, there was absolutely nothing special about Hermione Granger.

Except her ingenious ways, of course, but… that was _old_ news. And Voldemort could _not_ want a Muggle-born among his ranks _simply_ because she was cleverer than the rest of his Death Eaters.

Now _that_ possibility frightened her.

"You're pathetic, you know that?" she said to him, her voice wavering in the slightest. "What could you possibly benefit from serving Voldemort?" Malfoy flinched visibly at the same, and Hermione started laughing loudly.

"Still scared of his name," she said softly, the cruel tone under her words evident. "And yet you're his servant. That's… that's—well I can't even find a word for it. It's funny how _stupid_ the concept is though."

Malfoy remained silent for a moment, looking at her coldly, grasping for something in his mind that he knew would hurt her just as much as her words stung him.

"Did you just call _me_ pathetic?" he asked her silkily, and suddenly an almost predator-like grin had slipped onto his features. "Me, compared to the hideous, sniveling mess you are?" Hermione opened her mouth to retort, but he just kept on going.

"No, Granger, I'm not talking about now. I'm talking about your last night at Hogwarts. Honestly, _how_ could you be so stupid? _Everyone_ knew he was screwing around with Brown, even you! And there you go and break down into a blubbering _mess_ in his arms like it was a _complete surprise _that Weasel got bored of you."

_That _left her gaping. Her mouth open and closed only twice, before it snapped into a thin line and she glared.

"My affairs are _none_ of your concern, and don't even _try_ to change the subject, Malfoy," she spat. He let out a laugh that held no humor.

"None of my concern?" he repeated. "Merlin Granger, your affairs were all over the place and open for discussing in public! I couldn't ignore what rumors went about even if I wanted too!" He laughed openly again.

"Shut up," she growled angrily. "It wasn't my fault if—"

"You wouldn't let him shag you?" Hermione winced at his choice of words. "Or if he found someone prettier who was a bit more willing to spread around the _love_ that wasn't you?"

"Shut _up_, Malfoy, it isn't any of your business!" she snarled.

Now she was angry. Not only had he insulted her numerous times, he had brought up a _very_ touchy subject that she was _not_ willing to talk about, but with Malfoy she knew she had no choice. He would talk and talk about it until she cried or until she started beating him to stay quiet.

"Like I said Granger—"

"_I don't care! Shut up!_" she screamed at him, dragging herself to her feet and lurching unsteadily against the wall. "Don't you talk about that _anymore_. It never concerned _you_, and it never will."

"It never concerned Lavender Brown, but that didn't stop her, did it?" he commented slyly, grinning all the while.

She snapped; she let out a snarl of raw pain and lunged for him. He was half-expecting this, and finding that there was more sport if he fought with his wand, but even more if he fought with his hands, he pocketed the thin rod and met her half-way.

She only succeeded in knocking him down by head-butting his shoulders; both tumbled on the ground, and even though horrible pain played across her body, her muscles screaming, she fought. She got to her knees, got in front of him and smacked him hard across the cheek. The actual force sent him reeling back onto his back, and she fell over sideways, surprised, but pleased.

But a second later as she regained her posture, she lost it in a loud cry of pain. He retaliated, and viciously so. His fist connected with her cheek, and she had already endured so much that the pain was laced in the sinew of her arms like ribbons snapped when the shock occurred.

She let out a dry sob, both astounded that he would actually hit her and terrified that he had. She clutched her cheek, which was now bruised and tender, and felt her face twist up in agony and fury.

"_You son of a—_"

She let out a scream and lunged at him again, pushing herself to her feet. This time, he was completely ready, and acted fast. He swung out his leg, knocking hers out from underneath her, and during the split second where she was suspended in surprise, he grabbed her and twisted her arms behind her head and slammed her brutally into the wall face first.

She gasped at the sudden contact with the jagged wall, and the force of his body, much stronger and much more energized than hers, pinning her down against it. He lifted his leg swiftly and kneed the back of her thighs, numbing her legs of pain for a moment, but _gods_ it would hurt badly when the feeling returned. He pressed tighter against her, and the breath caught in her throat, and she couldn't breathe.

Her frame was too small, and she was too weak, and if he kept this up for long, he would suffocate her and kill her completely. Malfoy seemed to know this too, because he grabbed her wrists, and twisting them around somehow managed to flip her over, pressing her against the wall facing him.

They were close now… _too_ close. She let out a little gasp of surprise as he fumbled with her wrists and pinned them high above her head; her bust was now flush against him, and she did _not_ appreciate that _at all_.

"How do you like this, Granger?" he asked smirking, pushing the rest of his body against her. She went rigid with shock, her whole body very, very aware that he was pressed up against her, and had barely recovered before he took her and threw her as far as he could in a single, fluid movement.

She let out a cry as she went tumbling; Malfoy would not give her the time she needed to get up again, and started attacking Hermione of his own accord.

The worst physical abuse Hermione had ever dealt with had been spanking when she was a little girl, and once when her mother had slapped her when she had been hysterical over a low grade. Other than that, Hermione had never been hit or abused any other way in her life, so the attack that Malfoy threw upon her was something completely new, and it hurt like hell.

Each blow to her frame sent her shuddering, and it hurt too much for her to even cry out. Each came so swiftly, knocking both the wind out of her and, little by little, her consciousness too. She had no energy left to even attempt to stop him.

She turned slightly, hoping to move out of his way, but instead this allowed him to kick unhurt skin. The side of his toe struck her ribs, and she choked out a cry and curled into herself protectively.

Bruises everywhere, pain throbbing throughout her entire body, she slowly fell away into unconsciousness with Malfoy's cruel laughter ringing in her ears.

And the only thought she could conjure out of the torment was that she would suffer _alone_.

_**-  
-x-x-x  
-**_

**Author's Notes:** Well about fricken time I finished this chapter up, don't you think? Compared to the old version, there is a lot less physical violence in this because a few people pointed out that the human body may not be able to undergo such treatment.

But besides that, I hoped those who read this liked it, newbie or not, and hopefully you'll be looking forward to the next chapter so much that you'll **review **with vigor!

Thank you **Folk** so much for beta-ing this, and all the other good stuff!


	3. Fire Starter

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Harry Potter, merely this plot and Mr. Troy Malfoy who shall be entering this chapter!

Sorry about the wait.

**READ THIS!** If you have been waiting for this story to be completed so you can read the sequel, I say go ahead and read the sequel. Although the ending of this story is given away, there is still a lot of stuff that is important for both, and you're gunna miss a lot of things either way, so have fun and read the sequel. I just wanted to tell you guys that, because it has been mentioned.

**Chapter Summary**: After a brutal fight the night before, Hermione is left exhausted and aching as she relives the verbal spat that made her cry at the thought of it, and the bruises that leave tears on her face as she fidgets in pain. There is nothing she can do but wait, and when Malfoy lets himself in to bother her again, she retaliates with inhuman strength and manages to escape… only to be caught again by her savior… or so it seems.

Now, ON WITH THE STORY!

**The October Hollow  
By Darkwing731  
-**  
((--Chapter Three--))  
Fire Starter

-

_**Monday, October 19  
Day 2**_

_Bruises everywhere, pain throbbing throughout her entire body, she slowly fell away into unconsciousness with Malfoy's cruel laughter ringing in her ears._

_And the only thought she could conjure out of the torment was that she would suffer alone._

She couldn't even sleep. It wasn't sleep, despite the fact that her eyes were closed and her body unmoving, but neither was it unconsciousness. The moment she fell into blackness, pain seeped through her veins and showered her with random hot pangs through her arms and fingers. She was drifting in and out of the terrible pain, and each time her fingers twitched she was more acutely aware that she was waking up, and the throbbing grew horribly intense in her palms and fingertips.

Hands on fire, body aching to be relieved of its pain, her mind cleared itself of its mist as she turned on her side, rolling onto her bruised ribs and she woke up suddenly with an abrupt start, a sharp feeling pushing through her chest. Groaning, she let out a strangled sob, mumbling into the dirt, and rubbed the weariness from her eyes.

The moment her fingers touched her face, she shrieked; they were white-hot and shaking, and no matter how hard she clenched them in her palms, they would not stay still and only bit deeply into her flesh like knives. Hissing in pain, she kept her trembling hands in the dirt.

Eyes clamped together, and her face pressed against the ground, she shifted slowly and noisily, moaning in pain, and tried to use the nonexistent strength in her body to pull herself onto the surface of the semi-soft mattress.

Her muscles were stiff and rigid, pulled tightly and shaking with weakness. She propped herself up for a moment on the side, blinking drunkenly and trying to focus on just _making_ it to the bed rather than thinking about her empty, feeble body. Her arms were shaking hard, and they collapsed after her elbows bent so hard and her tendons become so prominent it was alien-like.

Aching. Aching everywhere, every place, every curve and every dip and bone of her body. Malfoy did not manage to beat her entire body, but the pain was too focused and every time she moved, her skin rippled across a wound and she would cry in pain as something tender was tested or pushed on.

She feebly pulled herself to the bed, and let herself go limp, and, even in the most uncomfortable position, she had never felt so relieved in her life.

The memory from the night before throbbed in her mind and she watched the scene flicker against her heavy eyelids. All she could see—feel, really—was the blinding rush of emotions when Malfoy had struck the right chord about Ron… the little snot could point out insecurities so easily, and he used them against everyone to make himself look superior. And she hated that.

But each blow he delivered the night before hurt even worse, Malfoy was bigger, stronger, and right now, he was smarter. He knew what was going on, what to do, he had the _wand_ for Merlin's sake… hell, he even had the Dark Lord on his side.

Voldemort had ordered her kidnapping after all, as far as she knew. That's what Malfoy had so pleasantly mocked in her face, so it had to be true.

_Why does it have to be true? The stupid ferret lies all the time, it doesn't necessarily mean it's true_, Hermione thought wearily to herself, ignoring the shooting, prickly feeling in her palms and finger joints. _He might've just said that to scare me, to have the upper hand… I wouldn't put it past him_.

And Malfoy had every intent to make her feel trapped and helpless and scared; if he could suppress the true reason she was there, and purposely mislead Hermione into thinking something else, Malfoy could feed her the wrong things by implication, and just when she had her own clever conclusion, Voldemort's army would strike her with something completely different, catching her off-guard and helpless… something that was bound to happen in one form or another.

So, being in this situation, Hermione didn't know what to believe. At the moment, she was almost positive she was here because of Harry; why else could she be there? There was nothing remotely special about Hermione except her astounding intelligence and close relationship with the only person ever known to live through the Killing Curse…nothing else.

So it was Harry, it _had _to be Harry.

She thought that maybe, with this conclusion, she ought to be mad, but she wasn't. Somehow, she was comforted with the fact that she knew what was wrong, and that there would be a way (she didn't know how or when, yet) that she could tell him that she didn't care; she still loved Harry and wanted him to get rid of the goddamned Dark Lord that just wouldn't die, because at one point or another, she and Ron had been in major jeopardy just for befriending Harry… and she didn't care one bit.

Hermione shifted just slightly, trying to find a position that would allow her breath to come more easily into her lungs, but she stopped halfway and let out a cry of pain, hands involuntarily going to her ribs to comfort whatever was wrong. Malfoy, the bastard, had fractured her ribs, no doubt, but moving to breathe shifted a splinter inside of her and now she could feel the blood seeping into her lungs.

Gasping for breath and falling back into her original position, she stuffed her face into the clammy pillow and coughed the mucus and despair out of her throat, hoping that whenever she could she would beat the hell out of Malfoy and make him feel just as terrible as her. The feeling of needles was pushing into her lung, rising hot liquid rising her windpipe again, and she gave a dry cough, struggling; spots of crimson dotted her pillow as she fought against the puncture.

She struggled against the liquid bile in her throat, choking her, blocking her breath from passing, trying so goddamned _hard_ to cough it all up that she was going dizzy. Grey was seeping into the corners of her closed lids, and she knew she had to stop the unconsciousness or else she would die by her own blood.

She pressed her hands hard against her ribcage, cradling it but pressing her fingers between the gaps, hoping to take the pressure off.

_Please_, she thought desperately, coughing louder than ever and spitting up blood with every second; _please let me live; please make this stop!_

Her arms shook suddenly, and her hands clenched involuntarily around her chest. Her flesh rose up with sudden fever, her fingers hotter than ever, and she spurted a choked gasp before leaning over the side of the mattress and vomiting up thoroughly the blood that had been rising in her windpipe.

She rolled back over on her back, gagging at the horrible taste and wiping her mouth. Her hands were trembling so hard that if they hadn't been so hot, she would've thought they were freezing.

Eyes fluttering shut, she sat up slowly and buried her hands in her face, marveling at the fact that she could feel no pain in her ribs or lung, no blood rising in her throat, and hardly any pain at all anywhere in her abdominal and chest area.

_What the hell was that all about_? That was the only coherent thought she could muster before a storm of fury and emotions arose as the door to her holding area, cell, whatever the _hell_ she was in, swung open.

Malfoy strutted in, fingering his wand and drawing her eyes to it, and kicking the door shut behind him. He smirked at her, a triumphant, superior look, and started to speak, but could hardly get a word out before she started screaming at him.

"_You stupid jerk_!" she shrieked at him, mustering up what little strength she had to shove herself up and off the bed, only to stumble and land halfway in the bloody vomit. A look of disgust and embarrassment crossed her face before she glared at the boy.

"You're such an idiot," Malfoy drawled, lifting a lip to sneer at her. Angrily, she shoved herself up again on weak legs, wiping the disgusting mess of blood and vomit on the side of her clothing and twisting her face up into a snarl.

"I had no protection _at all_," she hissed, narrowing her eyes. "But you're such a coward you decided to attack me _anyway_!"

"If I may recall correctly," Malfoy started lightly, looking at his fingernails; "It was _you_ who attacked _me_. All because I was stating the obvious… and really, there's nothing wrong with that."

"You provoked me, you bastard!" she snarled. Now, this was something new. Hermione simply did not _curse_. Cursing was for men who could not keep their angry emotions in check, like Ron—_stop that; don't think about it_—and Harry who were always swearing at one thing or another.

But Hermione kept herself under control, because swearing would mean losing her reason, something she never _ever_ wanted to do, because then she would let herself fall victim to whatever was being laid out as a trap.

"Oh did I?" Malfoy countered, feigning curiosity. "Because really, I thought _informing_ you that you're a stupid little Mudblood who can't even smell the whore under her nose isn't just funny, it's _true._"

Hermione realized a second too late that getting angry with him and retaliating was exactly what he wanted; he wanted her to loose her cool and charge at him in fury and attempt to hurt him, simply so he could have the excuse to hurt her.

She lunged, only managing to gain a few feet before she fell over, panting and wincing with pain. She clutched her knee, her fingers burning into her bones, before looking up at him to glare. His smile was enough for her to curse under her breath; she had reacted, giving him the pleasure of winning.

She couldn't decide what do with this situation, because now he had the control and she was still very weak. She needed to get even, and fast.

"So what if I was wrong?" The mental route sounded particularly appealing, she could handle it. "Everyone makes mistakes. Even _me_; I'm not perfect. _Just_ because I'm smarter than you and almost _everyone_ else doesn't make me immune to the pain that love brings… not that you would know. You've never had a heart, have you?" She knew she sounded arrogant and better than him, and she wanted it that way. Let him get angry as she set up her own little comparison; let him see how he would like it!

"Why, you're a bit egotistical, aren't you?" he commented snidely.

"Well you're a right pain in the rear, aren't you?" she spat right back at him. He looked mildly affronted, but really did not look hurt in the slightest way.

"Granger," he started, looking pensive, before giving a thoughtful little laugh. "Don't start getting all hypocritical all me, alright? How can _I_ be a pain in the arse when someone like _you_ can't even see two people literally _shagging_ right in front of you?"

She gave a little laugh, ignoring the painful twitch in her mind. "I'm sorry, did you call _me_ hypocritical? Because with your _master_ wanting to rid the world of Muggle-borns and half-bloods when Voldemort himself_—honestly, it's a name, _you're _pathetic_! — is _half-blood_ is a bit hypocritical… but you know, I could've heard you wrong." She allowed herself a pleasant smile tossed in his direction, primarily to piss him the ruddy hell off… _stupid bugger_, she thought, upset.

Malfoy stopped to think for a moment, she could tell, but he gave her a cold, calculating look, and she stared right back at him, just as hard.

"You don't know the first thing about the Dark Lord, Mudblood, so I wouldn't even be talking if I were you," he growled quietly.

"Well I do know that he was stopped by a helpless little baby… funny how things work out, him being the _supposedly_ most powerful wizard and all… except, in reality, he's not," she finished, deadpan. "Dumbledore is. Then Harry. And it looks like, from my point of view, which is, you know, a lot more logical than yours, that Voldemort is last. Oh, stop _flinching_ you stupid—little—_boy_!" she cried.

His face hardened. "I'll stop the moment you fetch yourself a backbone and tell Weasley to piss off. You're a sobbing little mess and it's _disgusting_."

"Hmm, I see a pattern in your insults. This happened last night, didn't it?" she inquired, tapping her head in mock thoughtfulness. "I get angry with you and try to make you shut up, while I get the hell beat out of me for defending myself. You aren't creative at all, Malfoy."

"I don't need to be creative, Granger. I can do what I want," he snapped back.

"Well, I am _floored_ by that statement," she said sarcastically, and started laughing at him. "I mean really, that must've taken _hours_ to come up with. And you're calling _me_ an idiot? Merlin, you make me laugh."

Malfoy glared at her, and she smiled victoriously to herself. This route was twisting up his wit and allowing her great amusement.

"Well, I'm glad I provide you entertainment, Granger," he started, keeping his seething temper under control. There was a little voice inside her head that predicted his next words, and she knew that as soon as the thought occurred, it would happen. "Because really, it's mutual. I've never seen anything as pathetic and cowardly as you, and I've never laughed so hard in my life."

"I can see where you gather that I'm pathetic, because I had my heart broken, but how in the hell can you call me cowardly? Now _that_ is so hypocritical of you it isn't even funny," she said seriously.

"You're completely cowardly Granger, everyone can see it," he drawled; she had a feeling she knew where his words were going, but she didn't want to think about it, but rather delay the inevitable pain. "You'd rather ignore Lavender Brown and stupid Weasley and their escapades instead of standing up to them, because you know you'd turn into a helpless sniveling mess… similar to a few nights ago."

"That's not true," she snarled, even though it was. "I knew what was going on, believe me, but I didn't say anything because I knew Ron would stop. The guilt would eat him away, and he would come back in the end."

"In the end? You mean after that whore died and he had no one else to screw around with?" he replied wittily. She let out a growl.

"Shut up, Malfoy," she hissed. "That's a damn lie, he'd come back to me before Lavender died."

"He'd come back for food and money, and you know it, Granger," he retorted. Her face twisted up in emotion—anger or pain, she didn't know—before she pushed the swelling tears out of her eyes and glared at him.

"Stop implying that Ron is a good-for-nothing bum, because he's _not_. He might be a jerk, he might've cheated on me, but he's not as bad as you!" she snarled, choking on her own tears. Malfoy grinned at her, delighted that he was pulling the right chord in her heart hard enough to make her cry.

"Look at you, you're already crying. You really need to learn how to suck it up, Granger, because in the real world, you're going to be killed in an instant if you wear your heart on your sleeve like that," he said idly.

"You know what, Malfoy? At least I _have_ emotions! You're just a heartless, cruel prick who can find nothing better to do except make people feel like rubbish," she spat, blinking away the tears as hard as she could. She was angrier with him than ever, and she deducted quite firmly that she was crying in frustration, nothing else.

"Granger, you are, once again, such an idiot. I do happen to have feelings, but I'm not weak like you; I'm not a sniveling little mess who can't keep her emotions in check," he countered calmly.

Her face twisted up in a snarl, and she released a jagged breath. "Stop _doing_ that Malfoy: stop jabbing at one little thing _just_ because it's the only fault you can find in me!" she spat. "So I cried, bully for you! So I'm Muggle-born! _Who cares_?" she cried, throwing her hands up into the air.

"Isn't there _anything_ else you can find wrong with me?" She didn't give him a moment to answer the question. "No, you can't, because you're only stupid enough to point out what everybody knows! Thank you, Captain Obvious!"

His eyes were narrowed, his lip upturned, and his body was tense. She took pride in seeing him so angry like this, trying to keep from bellowing out at her in rage. Now, it was _her_ turn to provoke him.

"But you know what, Malfoy?" she asked in mock curiosity. She stood, and took a shaky step towards him. "At least _I _can admit my faults. At least _I_ can admit that I'm not perfect, that I can be an idiot and ignorant. And at least _I_ can honestly say that I've been in love, or cried because I was so happy or so sad, and that I can actually help people. You can't do _any_ of that."

She took another angry breath, the air hitching in her throat as she glared at him, stepping forward with caution, fire burning her fingers and hands, splinters and ribbons of pain dancing up her arms.

"At least I'm not a sniveling coward who has to bow down to the world's most _idiotic _and two-faced _monster_, because he's not even good enough to be called a human, much less a wizard! At least I know that I have people, friends, _family_, that loves me and would be heartbroken if I ever died. And I can't really say the same for you," she finished in a quietly angry voice.

Fingers clenched into fists at her side, she stood as firmly as she could to the spot and mustered up the fiercest look she could, staring him down from a foot away. The bastard in front of her didn't know _anything_ of what she did, and the fury that was building up, forcing the muscle in his jaw to suddenly stand out unnaturally, was nothing of the pain, or happiness, or _love_, that she had ever felt. And it never would be.

There was a resonating crack through the air before she realized what happened, and without warning her cheek flamed up in pain. She mewed a little cry, cupping the side of her face, before she realized that Malfoy had struck her.

She looked up at him with a strange look on her face, before the comprehension that she had won the argument, that she had provoked him and made _him_ crack dawned on her. After a moment, the corners of her mouth lifted in a victorious smirk.

"And you're the one that said I couldn't keep my emotions in check," she whispered, smiling maliciously at him. Hermione knew she could do it; if someone as dimwitted and narrow-minded as Malfoy could push her to the edge and force her to snap and lash out, then she could do the same.

And she had.

Suddenly, the fire burning in his eyes was so bright that she couldn't look at it. He snarled at her, making a vicious movement, and she was sputtering for breath and trying to fight off the grey that was seeping into her vision as he dug his fingers—nails and all—into her throat.

Trying to swallow the panic away, she found she couldn't. Hands were wrapped around her throat, fingernails pressed into her throbbing veins, blood pooling and flooding and choking her, the walls of her throat collapsing.

He was strangling her. Malfoy was trying to _strangle_ her! The realization brought on a well of anger deep within her that was so unknown and so powerful it swallowed her like a child sucked into the ocean. Despite that she could muster no breath or gather a scream in the back of her throat, she snarled at him and started to claw at his face, pressing his fingers to his eyes and temples, hoping to set him aflame with her fiery hands, once again throbbing with blinding white heat.

All at once, too many things happened for her to comprehend: a yell of surprise, of pain, bounced off the walls of the holding chamber a moment before air was granted back to her body. She pulled herself together so fast, her brain took off in strategizing before she even realized what she was doing.

A torch was stationed in the room, up by the ceiling, so high up that it wasn't possible to reach it without an aid of some sort. It flickered orange, little wisps of bright blue flames dancing and licking the air around it. It was small, hardly bigger than the size of a fist, but still, fire was powerful. And that was why Hermione jumped for it.

Standing on her tiptoes, Hermione was only about 5 feet and 6 inches, but the torch was stationed at maybe eleven feet off the ground, even jumping barely brought her even closer to it. But she didn't care, despite how far out of reach it was.

Malfoy was on the ground, cradling the wounds on his face from her fingernails and her flaming hands. She sprinted, ignoring the screaming of her muscles and the shortage of her strength, and reached up as much as she could towards the flame of the torch, hoping, that by some miracle, she could grasp it.

It happened so quickly that she didn't believe what she had seen: she was so desperate, so scared that Malfoy would regain his icy posture and attack her before she could manage to grab some sort of defense, that she started chanting _hard_ in her mind for the fire to come down, to jump to her hand, to gather in her fingers, to allow herself some protection. When it did, only then did she throw a swift thanks of gratitude the gods above before she knew, suddenly, that she was holding fire, and she was wielding it.

She balled her hands around the flames dancing in her palms, and when Malfoy looked up at her for only a moment, a moment where she could see the scratches on his eyes and the burns on his face, she forced all concentration, all energy, all fury and all regret, _everything_, into the power she was holding.

Life seemed to burst out of her body as the flame multiplied and… _attacked_. It dropped from Hermione's hands like an atomic bomb, and the air seemed to contract for a single moment before it exploded, sending a ripple through time and space, shoving her backwards. She stumbled over, unaffected by the flames but mesmerized as Malfoy screamed out in surprised fright.

Fire was eating away at the walls, at the lump that was a poor excuse for a mattress, and _at the hem of Malfoy's robes_. It was attacking him, and suddenly she willed it, ever so hard, with all the might and fury that still remained in her blood, to swallow him up and kill him.

A sharp crack echoed as the air sang, and the fire rose up like a twister, gathering up at the ceiling in puffy clouds, leaving Malfoy a split second of fake security before it funneled down in a spiral and consumed him.

Hermione glanced at the door; it was burning up, bits of old wood falling through and eating the rotten surface away for good. She looked at Malfoy, screaming in pain and clawing at the fire for escape, and then turned and ran for the door.

She did not feel the fire licking at her feet as she kicked away the remains of the door, throbbing coals blistering her feet, before she pushed her whole body through the smoky hole and _ran_.

She didn't know how far, how long, how fast she had gone, but all she knew what that with each passing moment, she was getting farther away from Malfoy and closer to the home that she had been abruptly taken from. To her at the moment, there was nothing to think about except running; no point in thinking about the stitch in her side, the grey clouding up her vision, the pebbles piercing the soles of her feet, _nothing _had any point anymore to her except escaping as fast as she could.

Soon, however, when she knew that she had been running _too_ long, had been going _too_ fast, and had gone _so_ far that she had no _clue_ as to where in the hell she was, she stopped. She slowed down, dragging her feet, and each time her soles hit the ground it was harder for her to lift them up again. The oxygen that she had so hurriedly deprived herself of as she ran suddenly was squeezing back into her body, and she was gasping for breathe and struggling to regain the logic that had never failed her, but had escaped her this very moment.

She looked around, and collapsed against a wall, wheezing heavily. Clutching her ribs, she looked around, eyes wide against the darkness, and ears alert for any sort of sound. After a minute of doing nothing but steadying her breath, she stood very slowly and started walking, her fingers grazing the wall and giving her the only hint of direction as she walked steadily, blindly, into darkness.

She didn't know why it wasn't dark when she was running. It was pitch-black now, and she couldn't even see her own two hands that were groping in the unending darkness. Swallowing her fear, and the panic that was slowly rising in her veins, she kept moving, gaining speed as she went, before running with her fingers guiding her.

Her mind raced; what in the hell was she supposed to do now? Worry was etched into her mind as she thought of anything to do, anywhere to go, anyone who—

All thought stopped abruptly, her eyes widening and her fingers twitching. She was frozen, listening, as someone slowly walked up the hallway she was in.

Blood crept back into her brain, and all reason and logical thought started whispering to her in a rushed, muffled voice. She had only one option—_what do I do oh gods where do I go?_—and she didn't particularly think it was a good idea: _run_.

She couldn't tell which way the footsteps were coming, only that they echoed loudly, bouncing off the walls, and soon she could hear the breath that was steady and calm and hadn't a real care in the world. Where the _hell_ was it coming from? What direction?

Hermione looked left, then whipped her head to the right, and whimpered very quietly. She hadn't a clue what to do. She clenched her eyes closed, twisting her fingers into her scalp, praying to the _gods_ that when she ran one direction, it would be away from this unknown person.

She took a step to the right, hesitated, and as her heart burst with adrenalin and panic, she started fleeing, hoping that she was going the right way. She was scared out of her mind; was she going towards it, or away from it? Was each step bringing her closer to her inevitable capture, or to her illusion of a hideaway?

A gasp flared up in her lungs as she stepped and ran, tripping over her feet, stumbling before pushing herself to run—_faster dammit, they'll catch you_—and away from whatever fate had in store for her.

All movement slammed to a stop when she collided with another human being. Shrieks of surprise: her own, high and scared, and that belonging to a man. She realized only after she was running again, that she had pushed the person against the floor and used him as a mean to give herself more momentum.

She didn't get very far, however, because she let out a cry of fear as something, someone, grabbed her around the waist, hoisting her into the air and pressing the familiar tip of a wand to the hollow of her throat. Struggling, she fought to be released, kicking and screaming.

"Would you _please_ calm the hell _down_?" her captor snapped; the voice was male, young, and strangely familiar.

"_Malfoy_?" she gasped, fury spreading over her. "Let _go_ of me you stupid jerk!"

There was a chuckle, but the boy's grip did not loosen. "You think me to be Draco," he said, and gave a hearty laugh. "That's rather funny, actually."

"Let go of me, you stupid fool!" Hermione snarled. The restrictions of his arms holding her up were suddenly released, and she fell to the floor before she could blink.

"_Incarcerous_!" the boy yelled, and before Hermione could even move to try to get out the way, ropes had bound themselves around her, twisting and tightening over her body; she went rigid and couldn't move, but she settled for squirming anxiously about the floor.

"_Lumos_," he muttered, and a bright beam shined in her face. Neon spots erupted in her eyes, and she blinked and turned her scowling face away.

"Untie me," she growled. "Untie me and let me go, I didn't do anything!" Was it possible that whoever this person was hadn't a clue who _she _was and might actually be naïve enough for her to persuade? Would it be possible?

"Sure, you might not have done anything, but did the thought occur to you, Granger, that a prisoner is not to be released?" he asked, his voice amused.

_He knows who I am, _she thought irritably. _There goes my means of escape._

The boy who had captured her, whoever he was, slowly crouched down next to her and pointed the bright beam of his wand in her face. She winced at the bright light.

"Huh, so _you're_ Hermione Granger. They've been telling me about you, you know. Especially Draco. He just doesn't shut up. Really, I think he envies you," he said, and laughed at his own words.

_Who the is this bloke?_ Hermione thought to herself. If this was a Malfoy that was talking to her, _why _was he being so lighthearted and nice? Why wasn't he beating her up or calling her a stupid little Mudblood?

"My name, Granger, is Troy," the bloke said, bringing the light up to illuminate his face. The light shined in his eyes, and he squinted and lowered it slightly; Hermione's eyes widened at the sight of him.

This boy, Troy apparently, looked like Draco Malfoy in almost every single way. Their faces were sculpted the same way, the same arrogant arch of the eyebrows, the same stunning silver-grey eyes, the same aloof look. Everything was the same.

But he was different, somehow. He was older, his face longer and his eyes brighter, possibly with amusement or kindness, she didn't know. His hair was ruffled and unkempt and falling into his face, and his lips upturned into a _smile_, not a smirk.

"Are you _sure_ you're a Malfoy?" she blurted before she could stop herself. This boy, Troy, smiled at her before it turned into a grin and he started laughing.

"They always thought I was a bit odd, and I can see everyone else does too," he commented. "Believe it or not, I'm just like them, except the evil side is buried deep."

Hermione remained silent, and watched him suspiciously. A backlash was stinging the tip of her tongue, dying to be said, but she kept it in. This Malfoy was _still_ a Malfoy, and therefore, could not be trusted. Not now, not _ever_.

"Now Granger, mind telling me where Draco might be? Why he was slacking off enough to let you escape your cell?" Troy asked curiously, sounding as if he was truly interested. Hermione glared at him suspiciously, and refused to make a single movement or sound.

"Oh, come on now; don't make me force it out of you. I could do that, you know. I've got a wand," he said, waving it without threat in her face. By the look on his face, it seemed as if he was teasing her rather than actually threatening her.

"I don't know," she mumbled, immediately tearing her eyes away from his face.

Troy took her chin in his hand and turned her face slowly towards his. He lowered himself until he was nose to nose with her, and Hermione was reminded of the other Malfoy boy, who had grinned maliciously and pressed his body against hers, filling each dip and curve of her body with his. At the memory of Malfoy violating her personal space, she seized up.

"You do know, don't you?" Troy whispered. His eyes flickered down her face, towards her mouth, and she let out a squeak of fear. Her palms were trembling against her legs, despite the fact that they were bound so tightly she could barely feel them.

"Tell me," Troy urged in a hoarse whisper, bringing his hand to pin down her shoulder and swinging a leg over her body. Comfortably, he straddled her thighs and brought himself so very close to her, so close that any sort of movement would force their lips to touch.

"Tell me now, Granger, right now." He let his eyes linger on her lips for a long moment, before they swallowed up her terrified auburn irises. His eyes were gleaming and dark with power, and she let out a whimper of fear.

"B-Back there," she stammered suddenly, her body trembling in fear beneath him.

"Back where you were before?" he asked, and she gave a little noise of confirmation.

"Excellent," he said happily, and hoisted himself off of her in a moment. A terrible weight lifted off her shoulders, and suddenly she felt like crying was the only possible thing she could do at the moment, she was so frightened.

Frightened of what, though? Frightened of the fact that a man had caught her unguarded, tied her up and straddled her, leaving her completely vulnerable? Scared at the fact that Troy had come _so close_ to kissing her that it signified how helpless she was, and in a matter of seconds he could do much more than just kiss her against her will? Scared because a _Malfoy_ had used a primal fear hidden in every woman to get just what he wanted?

Or scared because she actually believed herself for a single moment that she could not get away, that she would _never_ escape and the rest of her life would be like that—helpless and tied down and forced into everything?

Troy muttered something under his breath, and the restraints around her body loosened slightly. He grabbed her by the arms and picked her up, standing her straight, before looking at her strangely.

"Why are you crying?" he questioned her, confused. She bit her lip, shaking her head and tried to muffled the whimpering sob that was about to escape her mouth.

The boy shrugged, and started walking, keeping a firm hold under her elbow. She made no protest, only focused on stopping the flow of the ridiculously scared tears that were streaming down her face.

It had been a tremendously long run for her down to the point where she had encountered Troy, but the walk back to her cell seemed to end in a matter of seconds. Troy stopped dead when the beam of his light hit the wasted remains of what had been her cell.

The door was gone, and in its place were ashes. Scorch marks were etched into the ceiling and floor and walls for five feet in each direction of the door, and everything smelled horribly of smoke. Hermione coughed and choked on her tears and the smell of the dead fumes.

Troy stepped in cautiously, pointing his wand out in every direction to examine every inch of the room. When his wand was directed at the lump in the middle of the room that was big enough to be a human body, he tensed up like he had been struck with a Freezing Charm. For a moment, his fingers went limp against Hermione's elbow, and slid away from her. She considered running, but she was too fascinated by Troy's slow, drunken movements to do anything but watch.

The Malfoy moved slowly, his hand shaking noticeably as he kneeled down and reached out to touch the charred body. He laid his fingers on something dark, his hand shaking against it, before he gave it a rather hard push.

There was a grunt, and she watched as Troy visibly relaxed. He drew out his wand, and pointed it to the unconscious creature.

"_Ennervate_," he murmured; a softly dimmed light followed, and a second later, Draco Malfoy gave a groggy moan and rolled over onto his back.

"What the hell… I feel like I fell off my broom," he groaned. Troy laughed at him and shook his head.

"I dunno what the hell happened Draco, but there was some kind of fire," Troy told him, and suddenly turned and looked at Hermione, who was recalling the events as they were played out in her mind.

Malfoy started moving quickly and hurriedly, pushing his burned robes away from him and struggling to get up as fast as he could.

"Granger, that stupid little bitch! She—she grabbed the fire and _threw_ it at me, and it just—_what the fuck_?" Malfoy cried, clutching his head. "It doesn't make _any_ effing sense! What the hell!"

"What do you mean? What happened?" Troy demanded hurriedly.

"She was bitching at me, so I struck her across the face, and the next thing I knew the little bitch started clawing at mine, and then she got away and went for the torch and—and she just _threw _it at me!" Malfoy said hysterically, his voice rising.

"Calm down, Draco. There's obviously something else that happened, because you know my father put that torch where no one could get it without magic. Granger is only like, 5'4 or something, and that torch was a good 11 feet up or so," Troy reasoned.

"I don't care, Troy. She—she cupped it in her hands and _threw_ it at me and—and I was burning up so bad, she just got away. I'm telling you, she _threw_ that fire at me," Malfoy rambled, sounding almost insane with his words.

"Whatever, Draco. We'll figure out what the hell happened later. Right now, we need to get Granger to a different cell, or we'll be in huge trouble," Troy said. He turned around, and Malfoy was suddenly snarling and drawing out his wand.

"Where is the little bitch? I'm going to hurt her so bad she won't be able to move for a week," Malfoy snarled spitefully.

Troy looked around the burnt room. "She's not in here. Where is she?" The Malfoy boys looked at each other before sprinting out the door. "I'll take the right," Troy said. Malfoy nodded, and they each sped off in their other directions.

Fortunately for Hermione, Troy was the one that found her. She had been hopping away hurriedly, scared out of her mind with the possibilities and thoughts on _how the hell _she had attacked Malfoy, because she remembered it too… she _had _thrown the fire at him… but she just didn't know how.

Hermione had, unfortunately, tripped and fallen over, and was desperately trying to get back to her feet. She was on her knees and shoving her back against the wall when Troy caught sight of her; he did not hex her, he did not glare and shout at her, but he moved swiftly and grabbed her by the shoulders.

"What the hell happened in there, Granger?" he asked immediately. Hermione recalled the unearthly anger in her body, the way her blood had boiled and heat rushed to her fingertips, how she felt as if she could do anything if she just willed hard enough…

"I don't know," she whispered honestly, looking up at Troy with wide, terrified eyes.

And it was that moment that Hermione realized something; Malfoy had, her first night, refused to answer her assumption that Harry was the reason she had been kidnapped in the first place. She had declared to herself that she was as plain as the next person, and the only thing special about her was her immense intelligence, nothing else.

But she was wrong. It wasn't Harry Potter, it was _her_. Her, and this fiery power her fingers had when provoked by her anger.

And when she understood that it was no one else in danger except for her because of this, things suddenly seemed to be a lot worse.

She glanced down at her fingertips, recalling previous times when they had been so hot, so burning, that she feared they would melt her down to her very core. Now, they had melted away things that were much larger and stronger than her, and she wasn't so sure about herself anymore…

She had started a fire, and had almost _killed _Malfoy. Murdering someone didn't make her any better than a Death Eater, so she felt as if she was falling into Voldemort's trap already, just by doing something that came as a natural defense.

But who could've known? Surely not the know-it-all Hermione Granger who got perfect scores on everything and anything she handed in… surely not the bossy, intelligent witch who knew what she was doing… surely not _Hermione_.

Yet, _was_ she Hermione anymore? Now, it seemed, she was a victim.

A victim of Voldemort, and a victim of herself.

_**-  
-x-x-x-  
-**_

**Author's Notes**: Well, you can see that I took a different route with this chapter, and with Troy. Troy is supposed to be a completely different person from the old story, so the violence that he held in the original was just _ick_, no. It was a spur-of-the-moment thing, and it was _bad_. So here, he is improved. Viola!

A huge shout to **Folk** for betaing this for me, I would die without her!

Thanks for sticking with this guys, **please review!**


	4. Winner Take All

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Harry Potter, just this freaking plot, and some characters which shall be important later on…

Well, sorry for the long delay, you guys! I hope this chapter and the following chapter prove to be satisfying!

**Chapter Summary:** With the knowledge of why things had happened, Hermione is awake the entire night. Displeased with finding her awake, Malfoy finds a way to make her unconscious, and does it. And although Lucius blamed Draco for the fire, Troy covers, gaining him a favor in turn, but at the moment, he could care less. Draco has been granted permission to take his winnings... for now. He must wait before he can take the whole prize. Hermione, after hearing this news, is far from thrilled, especially when she learns that _she_ is the prize itself.

Yaaay let's begin!

**The October Hollow  
By Darkwing731**

((--Chapter Four--))  
Winner Take All

-

_**Tuesday, October 20  
Day 3**_

_And when she understood that it was no one else but her was in danger because of this, things suddenly seemed to be a lot worse._

_She glanced down at her fingertips, recalling previous times when they had been so hot, so burning, that she feared they would melt her down to her very core. Now, they had melted away things that were much larger and stronger than her, and she wasn't so sure about herself anymore…_

_She had started a fire, and had almost killed Malfoy. Murdering someone didn't make her any better than a Death Eater, so she felt as if she was falling into Voldemort's trap already, just by doing something that came as a natural defense._

_But who could've known? Surely not the know-it-all Hermione Granger who got perfect scores on everything and anything she handed in… surely not the bossy, intelligent witch who knew what she was doing… surely not Hermione._

_Yet, was she Hermione anymore? Now, it seemed, she was a victim._

_A victim of Voldemort, and a victim of herself. _

"How much longer?" Draco asked Troy, more impatient now than ever. Troy rolled back his sleeve and looked at his watch.

"Five more minutes," he replied. "Give it a rest, Draco. It's your fault we came early, so stop asking me the bloody time of day."

"Well ex_cuse_ me for being anxious, I'm just eager to get permission from my father," Draco sniffed. Troy smiled slyly.

"I knew you had some weird kind of obsession with her."

"Please," Draco scoffed. "I'm _not_ obsessed with the little Mudblood. It's merely a form of punishment that I'm inflicting… and looking forward to."

"Because it's not so painful for you, is it?" Troy drawled. "That is, unless your trousers are too tight." He laughed aloud at this, and Draco rolled his eyes, but could not hide his grin.

The door in front of them opened abruptly, revealing an annoyed-looking Lucius Malfoy.

"Well don't just stand there, boy, get in," he snapped at Draco. He nodded obediently and swept past his father, and Troy gave Lucius a bright, taunting smile in return to Lucius' dangerous look, and entered in after Draco.

"Sit," Lucius commanded. The boys did, and looked to the man expectantly. Lucius stood in front of them, balancing his signature cane with his long fingertips.

"Now, please explain to me why the Mudblood has been moved to another room," Lucius said silkily, his voice soft and dangerous.

"She was saying distasteful things, and I decided that a smaller holding cell would be more convenient," Draco said calmly, ignoring the taunt that Troy would toss at him later on.

"Convenient for you, you mean," Lucius said quietly. Troy was tempted to laugh wildly at the contempt in the elder Malfoy's face, but he knew the kind of trouble he would be in.

"Yes," Draco said, trying to speak as firmly as possible. "A smaller room would frustrate her."

"The new room is not much smaller than the old one, and there were several nearby that were twice as small as the one you selected," Lucius purred, enjoying the panic that crept into his son's eyes. Troy wanted to groan; Draco was slowly being backed into a corner.

"Well, I thought that I could keep moving her to smaller places. If I had just gone straight to the smallest cell I could find—" Draco faltered noticeably, and Lucius took the stumble to interrupt.

"In a smaller cell, it would be easier to start a fire, would it not?" Troy covered his face in frustration, and Draco swallowed the alarm that was rising in his throat.

"Whatever do you mean, Father?"

_No! Oh Draco, you're an idiot_, Troy mused, frustrated.

"I think you know exactly what I mean, Draco," Lucius spat, now quite openly angry. "You started a fire to teach her a lesson and look what happened! You _destroyed_ the holding cell!"

Draco was nervous now, and Troy didn't need to look over to see his cousin fidgeting. "Father, I—"

"Don't play games with me, Draco," Lucius snarled.

"I did it, sir," Troy said suddenly, and Lucius whipped towards him; Draco looked alarmed at Troy's sudden interruption.

"Explain yourself!" Lucius demanded.

"Granger was being a little bitch, so I set her clothes on fire, and somehow the bed went up in flames, the torch caught, and I had to drag her out of the cell because she would've died," Troy lied calmly.

"And you let Draco take the fall for this action of yours?"

"Yes, sir. I mean, why would I take the blame if someone else was held responsible for it? I didn't get caught, so why confess?" Troy asked rhetorically, but then realized his mistake.

"Exactly, Troy. _Why _admit to this?" Lucius said sharply. Troy stared back into the man's powerful silver eyes, his mind closed but racing for a decent excuse behind the walls.

"Draco will pay me back later," Troy said after a long pause. "I do something for him, he does something for me. And if not, well then, there are always ways of persuading him."

Lucius examined his nephew closely, and Troy stared right back at him, not trying to act timid or defiant. The elder lifted his jaw slightly, his liquid eyes gleaming in suspicion, before he finally, doubtfully, accepted Troy's words.

"And what, in time, will you demand of my son?" Lucius asked softly.

_This_ was the kind of game that Troy took pleasure in; virtually anything he said could be taken two ways, and even if Lucius claimed Troy meant one thing, the boy could announce that he meant the other.

And, fortunately, Lucius seemed to like Troy better than he did his own son. Troy was perfect in his own father's eyes, and it seemed that way to everyone else.

"Well, you know, a bit of his punishment time," Troy said offhandedly. "I just want to have a little fun with him, if you know what I mean." He had an awful time fighting the smirk on his face, but Lucius did not try to suppress his.

Draco sighed wearily into his hands, while his father crossed his arms leisurely over his chest. "A little fun time with my son?"

"Just to play around, yes," Troy confirmed lightly, now grinning cheekily. Lucius stared him down, clearly amused, and only played off of Troy's words.

"I wasn't aware Draco was willing to do anything of the sort," Lucius said slowly.

"Well, there is _plenty_ you don't know about your son," Troy said brightly. "This boy, why, he takes it any which way they prefer. He seeks to please."

Draco groaned into his hands loudly, disgusted. "Will you shut it, Troy? You're such a damned liar!"

"Watch it," Lucius clipped, his mood changing abruptly. Draco shot Troy an angry look, and the boy shot back an amiable smile.

"Well _excuse me_ for defending myself," Draco snarled angrily. Lucius did not make an extremely tentative change in his anger, but immediately, Troy sensed it.

He regarded his son with a cool sort of fury, the type that Troy's father seemed to possess. Draco glared back at his father, aware of how much trouble he would be in, but certainly not caring a bit.

"What did you say to me?" Lucius asked quietly, his voice at a dangerous low.

Draco fought the urge to scream back, and merely dropped his eyes from his father's instead, wishing he had a bit more courage than usual.

Because he had looked away, he did not see Lucius lift his silver-headed cane; the tip, belligerent and sharp, suddenly prodded beneath his son's chin, and Troy could hear the sharp intake of breath.

"You do not speak to me in that manner, _boy_, understood?" the elder Malfoy growled. Draco did not respond automatically, and with a jerk of the cane, Lucius was glaring down at his son, ignoring the dribble of crimson blood on the boy's neck.

Troy needed to stop this; "Uncle—"

"_Quiet_," Lucius snarled loudly, bearing only a glance at him. Troy silenced immediately. Lucius turned his acid gaze back onto his son.

"_Do you understand me_?"

"Yes," Draco said at once, his voice low, ashamed at being so easily dominated. Troy had sympathy for him, but he knew it would never be shown.

"Good," Lucius snapped, withdrawing his cane. He was satisfied that he had bullied his son, easy as it was.

Again he switched moods, this time to a businesslike manner. "Now, both of you are to go back to the Mudblood's cell. I've things to do and you two only get in my way. You may go."

Draco took only a matter of seconds to leave the room, trying to subtly rush out but not act as if he were utterly intimidated. Troy sighed, stood, and walked out slowly.

"Draco has my permission to start his task. Tell him of the restrictions, though, Troy," Lucius called.

"Yes sir," Troy threw over his shoulder, and sighed quietly; Draco would be a bit furious about this.

Punishment for Granger meant joy for Draco, and that was about it. Troy knew what was going on; hell, he'd even suggested it. It was a form of abuse, and well, enough of it would wear down Granger's mind and sense of logic, her quick wit, she would be distracted, and the Dark Lord (Draco too, possibly) would get what he wanted.

But there were restrictions; _always_ restrictions. Draco did not know any of these, while Troy did. The only reason he did was because he knew every little detail of this whole goddamned plan, and Draco didn't. Troy had to watch his footing, because if his younger cousin caught on that Troy had an advantage… then things went down the drain.

"Wait up," Troy echoed into the dark corridor. He cursed, stumbling along, and withdrew his wand, knowing that Draco would never wait in the darkness. "_Lumos_, you bastard," he muttered.

Troy caught up with him soon enough; he was walking down the corridor quickly, with no light to guide him and his eyes closed in thought.

"You've been given permission, you know," Troy said loudly, breaking his cousin's reverie quite purposely.

Draco spun around, suddenly looking a lot happier than he did moments ago. "Are you joking?" Troy shook his head. "After that, I thought my Father would've killed me. I can't believe he still trusts me to do this."

"About that," Troy said hesitantly. Draco stopped, his brow raised, his eyes angry. "Well, you know, you can carry on doing what you like," Troy said delicately. "But you can't do the Full Monty."

"_What_!?" Draco exploded. Troy allowed himself to grimace at the shriek, but nodded afterwards. "Why _not_?"

Troy shrugged, feigning ignorance with expertise. "No idea. That's what your father told me, though, and I wouldn't go against his word if I were you."

"But… so what if I did? How would that affect _anything_?" Draco demanded furiously.

"Do you even know what they're preparing to do?" Troy asked sharply. Draco looked away with a frown. "Neither do I. And with the Dark Arts, a lot of important things happen when the person that's being dealt with is a virgin."

"Rubbish," Draco muttered to himself. "I can't believe you're just telling me this now. I had such things planned for the next two weeks!"

Troy rolled his eyes at the innuendo. "Alright, you rapist," he jested.

Draco grinned. "After what I put her through, she'd be more than willing." The boys roared with laughter at this, and through the short journey back to Granger's cell, they bounced back their crude jokes to one another.

Troy _was_ like Draco in many ways, but there was one vital difference between the two of them: he gave people _chances_. Draco was suspicious of everyone and every_thing_ from the moment it lay within his vision. Troy, although doubtful, could be very trusting.

That was why when they finally came upon Mudblood Granger, Draco would give no attention to her pleas, and only do as he wished. Troy, well, he had no choice but to stand back and witness, and try to stop the inevitable from happening.

Soon enough, though, the one they held prisoner would be having her own say.

And it would matter very, _very_ much.

_-x-x-x-_

It was only three days worth of food that she had not had, food that she was longing for. It wasn't that much, surely, and the fatigue she felt was not from lack of nutrition, definitely not; it was from the beating Malfoy had given her.

Of course, only the starved, slightly delusional voice in her head kept reiterating the nonsense she knew not to believe. It _was_ lack of nutrition that forced her to be so weak, and she could do nothing about it but conserve what little energy she had.

Hermione was, in a word, exhausted. She hadn't had a bite to eat in three, almost four days. She last had something in her mouth at the dance, perhaps an hour or so before it started. It seemed too long ago to remember, and she didn't dare try. The thinking might waste what energy she had left to spend.

Not thinking about food and when she had last tasted the heavenly substance was easy enough to do. What _was_ hard not to think about was the fire… the pain in her joints and the power her anger seemed to wield.

She had not slept because of the frightening subject. As soon as Troy had shoved her inside the door of the new cell, she had fallen to the floor, not taking any notice of the pain that rushed to her knees. All that she knew was the consuming horror of what was happening to her.

She had found a corner and pulled her knees to her chest and sobbed like a little girl. She could not be comfortable with herself like she had when she blamed Harry without anger. Now, she could only blame herself, for she was the only person who wielded such power, such… _danger. _

It had almost bloody _killed _Malfoy, so who knew the extent of this strange power she seemed to posses? It wasn't the first time she had stared down at her small hands, sculpted nicely but more belligerent than ever, it seemed. She had spent hours gazing at them, more through them than anything, trying to probe about her own mind in an attempt to find what cursed her like this.

Had there been any type of warning in previous times? No, she could not recall a period where her anger had been so brutal, so cold, that it had provoked this ancient heat inside of her, and another human had almost been slain because of it.

_Only once…_

Just before Malfoy had confronted her in the dark, in the midst of the night while the rest of the castle was still throbbing with energy. Just when Ron had left her… or maybe, when he had informed her of his leaving. Just after she had realized _truly_ how stupid she had been for allowing his infidelity to continue… and she had been angry. Livid, fuming, anger swirling like fire, rising up from the depths of her soul. It seemed to control her mind and her body, and everything, _all _of it, betrayed her that night.

She had been subject to her own haywire emotions, and because of that, the rage took over. And the power announced itself.

So that had been the only warning. Yes, she was quite happy she identified that, but there was also a much larger problem consuming her ever-questioning soul: for what purpose would these be to Voldemort? Hermione could barely understand them, much less wield it, so what could Voldemort possibly do?

_He's got to know what's creating this strange power. Otherwise, I wouldn't be here. I'm not a trap for Harry, I'm a prisoner of my own power. And he knows how to control it_, she realized suddenly.

And then, she realized something else.

_And he wants me like this, so very confused. He doesn't want me discovering how to use these powers of mine, because when I do, and I **will**, they'll be stronger than he could ever imagine them to be_.

The thought of being more powerful than Voldemort was unimaginable. Impossible, even.

But there was Dumbledore, and being more powerful than him was not a thought so amazing to her; she did not want to be compared to Voldemort because he used his outstanding power for evil, while Dumbledore used his own for good. If she was to wield such power, she wanted it to be for the glory of peace.

All in all, though, Hermione still hadn't a damn clue about what was going on. She had powers that she had no clue how to use, yet Voldemort _must_ know how to use them. It was something so foreign and powerful that it scared the daylights out of her, and how could she forget? She was missing, kidnapped, being held hostage in this baleful, twisted _place_ that she didn't even know _what _ it was.

Her situation, in a word, was positively _shit_. She was being played as the fool and she couldn't even determine what was going on.

It was a miserable idea, really, but she was living it.

She moaned forlornly into her hands, and stared into the inky darkness that was thinner than it had been before. Ever since Troy had shoved her into the room and left, she hadn't slept a wink. She was exhausted and starving, and confused out of her mind.

But now, dawn was here. And that meant one thing to her.

They were coming back.

Hermione didn't know what would happen to her on this day, if she'd be suffering at the hands of Malfoy or at Troy's unknown character, but whoever she would be dealing with, she knew it wouldn't be pretty.

_-x-x-x-_

"Shut it, you idiot," Draco hissed at Troy, who was laughing loudly. They were swiftly approaching Granger's door, and because Draco wanted to scare the daylights out of their hostage, it had to be quiet. Honestly, he couldn't understand why Troy didn't get that.

"Give it a rest, Draco, she's probably asleep," Troy shot back lazily. Draco sneered at him, and drew his wand.

"'Probably' does not mean definitely, so shut the hell up," Draco clipped. Troy gave a loud sigh deliberately, and Draco glared at him.

"You're an arse."

"So are you!" Troy declared.

"Ugh, whatever," Draco muttered. They continued down the hallway, following Draco's powerful wand light. The beam was so strong it lit up the entire hallway, seeping through the cracks of the doors, under the dust that inhabited every surface, and into Granger's cell.

They didn't know she was awake to spot the new light with wide eyes.

Draco gave a little flick of his wrist, the whispers of his mind echoing a spell, and the light dissolved into darkness immediately. The spell to open the door was provided, and the two boys entered. Draco grinned at his cousin, and silently crept into the chamber where Granger, terrified, was huddling up against the wall.

Troy gave a fake little giggle of excitement, and Draco whacked him sharply, muttering curses under his breath. He reached back and shut the door, and smiling darkly to himself, he ignited the light of his wand.

Light filled each and every crack of the room, seeped behind every curve and crevice, and Granger was seen with terror plastered all over her face.

Troy, who had been tensing up in mock excitement gave a loud, disappointed sigh. "Oh damn, she's awake. I told you!" he declared wildly to Draco.

Said cousin rolled his eyes, and drew out his wand; now, all he had was revenge for the little bitch before him, and he couldn't wait to start.

"Miss me, Granger?" Draco drawled, grinning devilishly at the battered girl against the wall.

"Not a bit. How could I miss rubbish like you?" she snarled back at him. She might've been weak, exhausted, _starving_, but nothing could take away her wit.

"Ouch," Troy said, feigning sympathy. Draco ignored his cousin, and continued on with Granger.

"Clever," Draco said dryly. "But one would think a little know-it-all like you would have a wittier retort."

"Being starved can do that to a person," Granger spat. "Food seems to help the mind."

"Exactly why we aren't feeding you, Mudblood," Draco said coldly.

"You might want to rethink that, Malfoy," she hissed. "If I die of starvation, I'm not going to be the one in trouble, you realize?"

"What do you mean, Granger?" Troy interjected suddenly, more alert than he had been before. Draco shot him a curious glance.

Granger turned her gaze icily onto Troy. "Obviously I'm a powerful use for Voldemort—" Both boys flinched noticeably, and Granger laughed at them. "So if I met my demise because of you two, well you could say_ you'd_ meet your demise because of me." There was a dark, victorious smile on her lips now.

"You aren't needed," Draco snarled. "You're a tool, good for nothing else."

_Way to go, Draco_, Troy thought dryly. He had just revealed more than he had even known to Granger, and Troy knew the intelligent Muggle-born had caught the implication.

"Exactly, you imbecile," Granger spat. "And because I spared your hideous soul from that fire is enough proof that your master needs me."

The Malfoys stared at her intensely, each caught in their own string of thoughts, and Hermione felt herself growing nervous. It had been a dangerous step to mention the fire in front of Draco Malfoy, and he seemed to be growing furious about it, despite his masking it behind a stoic face. Troy, however, looked extremely suspicious, and was watching Hermione closely. She swallowed the fear in her throat and tried to stare back at him.

Troy opened his mouth slowly, ready to trap her into a verbal corner, when suddenly, Draco struck before him.

"_Flammo_!" Draco shrieked, his eyes wild with anger.

Troy flinched, taken by complete surprise. He watched Draco, his face twisted in dark pleasure, and still, bitter anger, as Granger writhed on the ground before them, screaming louder than the ears could endure.

Draco willed all of his energy into this, the punishment of the Mudblood who had so viciously attacked him with her fire. How _dare_ she even mention the mere subject to him—for sure, now, she'd be handling a punishment far worse than anyone else. More painful than Lucius acted towards his own son, more painful than the disappointed, furious wrath of the Dark Lord, more painful than anything _he _ had ever known.

Her body was shriveling up, shaking uncontrollably as her voice gradually became hoarse. Her twitchy, jerky and temperamental movements kept catching him off guard for just a moment—a moment of mercy for Granger, he mused, though it was _not_ intentional—before he gripped the anger in his mind and made her withstand it.

But she was weaker than he, and in so many different ways. And now, like a delicate object, so fragile that it would break into a thousand scattering pieces if touched, Granger's screaming body crumpled in physical defeat before them. It happened all at once: one moment, she had been shrieking, her body arching in pain, and the next… she was still.

Fainted, Draco presumed, from the pain, or the lack of nutrients, or both.

Still, he could not help but think: _if I had been in her state, I could've lasted so much longer. She's weak, and she barely knows anything of pain… she could never be me._

Draco did not realize he was panting furiously until Troy's hesitant voice broke through his angry thoughts. He ripped his gaze from the Mudblood, unmoving and muscles still twitching, and glared at his cousin.

"What?" Draco snarled. Troy stared at him, and was not moved by Draco's bitter, hard eyes.

"She deserved as much, you know," Troy said quietly. "But nothing more of that sort. Get your revenge in a different way, channel your anger through something else."

"I know," Draco growled brusquely.

"You could kill her if you did that again; she's much too weak to handle any kind of pain like that," Troy said, softly again.

"What do I care if she dies?" Draco spat, and although he didn't mean for his voice to be harsh, he refused to apologize or feel guilty.

"Your father would be furious, and so would everyone else. For destroying her, they would destroy you. And if they didn't, the Dark Lord would," Troy confirmed gravely. "Granger was right; he _does_ need her."

Draco glared at his cousin; it hurt him, stung his pride deep down to hear those words. She was _right_, not he, and it had _always_ been this way. He hated Mudblood Granger just for that, if not for anything else.

"She's never going to know that, not as long as I'm alive," Draco growled, the anger deep in his throat.

"She's not supposed to. How she guessed—"

"Are you joking?" Draco cried, turning to stare at Troy in incredulity. "She's _Granger_. Give her ten minutes by herself and she could decipher the damned legend of _King Arthur_ for Merlin's sake!"

"Don't exaggerate, Draco," Troy sneered. "She could never be as clever as that."

"Then _how_ did she realize she was needed, Troy? _How_?" Draco demanded, his hands clenched so tightly around his wand the fragile wood was close to snapping.

"Logic, that's how," Troy stated firmly. "She's well-informed, and extremely logical. She's not a bloody _genius_; she just isn't dimmed by the natural assumptions of society."

"Whatever," Draco muttered, throwing a hateful glance at the unconscious girl before them. "She just knows too much."

"Then watch what you say," Troy replied sharply. He sighed at Draco's annoyed look. "Listen; there's nothing we can do to her when she's unconscious, so we might as well leave."

Draco wasn't listening; his attention was directed on the still girl on the floor, his gaze dark, full of spite, brimming with artful revenge that he longed to take. It was only a matter of short time, now, and why waste a moment of it with Troy? No, he was staying here, waiting, watching, preparing to pounce at the nearest sign of her life, just for the pleasure of taking it.

She was his, and now that he knew it, no one could get in his way.

"You go," Draco murmured, his eyes trained on Granger, her fluttering chest the only sign of life.

Troy didn't like the predatory look in his cousin's eyes, and yet… there was nothing he could do about it.

Accepting this, Troy sighed, turned, and left.

He just hoped that he could stop his younger cousin in the blinding rage that was soon to come.

_-x-x-x-_

Someone was calling to her. She could not distinguish who, but because it was the first sign of life in days, weeks, _years_ even, she ran.

There was no ground, no sky, no boundaries of life to keep her restricted. Who was to say she couldn't fly? Who was to say she couldn't swim through the air?

Ah, but she was not strong enough for this. She was too weak to swim back into her own dreams, pleasant but unpredictable. The voices haunted her with nostalgic memories, and no matter how hard she tried, she was too weak, _always_ too weak, to push them away.

She caught her breath, for just a moment, a gasp of recognition that there was no mist, no lovely flowers, nor a haven from the hell she had been living. Now it was her body that was weak, and not her mind, so she was safer than she had been. If she had her logic, she had everything. And everything was all she needed.

She was pinned, she slowly realized, and her breathing was labored and slow, as if she were fighting death. Pressure, random, stronger than she, was forcing her down, dragging her into this dizzy, weary state. She was too groggy to acknowledge what was happening, so when the shock of comprehension flashed through her, it sent her mind reeling.

She squirmed, struggling to breathe, trying to move around to find a more comfortable spot. She turned her head, just slightly, trying to find the air that could be inhaled—pain struck, fingers stabbing into her jaw, carving into her bone.

Her eyes were open now, wider than ever, and it took her a moment to understand what the blonde hair (so close, _too_ close) meant. And suddenly, she realized, Malfoy had her arms pinned, his legs crushing hers into the lump of the bed, his fingers prying at her jaw, and his mouth devouring hers.

She screamed, or at least, tried to. The horror of what was happening to Hermione sent a tremor through her body, awakening a fresh spurt of energy that she had thought long gone. In a swift move, both smart and strong, she bit his tongue, wrenched away from his snarling, bleeding mouth, kneed his surprised body and slipped away from him.

She did not get too far, however, because one moment she was crawling away, spittle dripping from her mouth, and the next, Malfoy's fingers were prying into her calf, grabbing at the waist of her skirt, and hauling her back to him.

Her voice was high, loud, frantic, and unheard by anyone that could've cared. Malfoy dragged her back, and she could hear his vicious laughter above her own terrified voice. She fought, however weakly, and Malfoy did not like the effort she put up. He dug his nails into her forearm, shoving her arm behind her back and pinning her down again.

She refused to be silenced, to go unheard, and she yelled louder. With a snarl, he grabbed her and shoved her down, back first, and she was shrieking up at his angry, twisted face. The next moment she wasn't, because with all his anger, his bitter jealousy, he struck her across the face.

Pain bloomed rapidly, and it was only seconds before she was choking on her on blood, fighting the loose tooth in her mouth. She gurgled, coughing, her vision swimming, before she cried out again at Malfoy's invading hands. His fingers, nimble and quick, were pulling apart the buttons of her already ratty shirt.

"No," she croaked, her voice quiet and slowly dimming. The pain was numbing her senses, tricking her, and she couldn't fight it. "_No_," she said again, stronger this time, but still, feeble. The blood trickled down her throat, seeping into the airway, and she coughed, and suddenly was pulling away from him.

He snarled at her sudden resistance, and she shielded away from him as best she could, but he ripped her arm away and struck her again. The pain was dizzying, and she could not fight it; drowning in the unconsciousness that she had come to know so well, she allowed herself to fall.

"_NO_!" Malfoy exploded, his voice riddled with anger. "You are _not_ falling asleep on me again, you weak little _creature_!" He groped for his wand, and in blind fury slammed it between her ribs, the point breaking through her skin.

Her body arched with audible pain, her gasping cry weak and forced, her lungs unable to catch enough air to support her. Her eyelids fluttered, her body falling limp again, but Malfoy would not allow this; he struck her, and suddenly she retched.

She groaned in agony, pain of more than one kind embedded into her body, and Malfoy snapped at her.

"Stay awake, you dirty Mudblood!"

She replied the only way she could: heaving. Blood rose in her throat, hot and gushing, disgusting, and she coughed, heavy and deliberate, and blood splattered his face.

_Dirty blood_, she thought darkly to herself as she stared up at him, relishing the stunned look on his face.

For a moment, he was caught off guard, surprised, and he touched the blood dripping down his cheeks. He studied his fingertip, engrossed in the substance, before he realized abruptly what it was. He glared back down at Hermione, his face twisting up in a sneer, before Hermione hawked back all the blood and mucus she could muster, and spat in his face.

She had never been more disgusted with herself in her life, really, but this was necessary. He was horrified at the sick dribbling down his face, and jumped away from her, desperately trying to scrape it off his skin. She scrambled, tried to run for the door, anywhere she could that was away from him.

She had nowhere to go, and as she tugged incessantly at the door, panic rising up in her chest, the iota of energy spent, she accepted that she would have to face Malfoy.

Trembling, she turned away from the door and looked at him, attempting to summon all the courage she had. It didn't work; one look from the dangerous boy, whose fury seem to run deeper than blood and bones, whose wrath could be as vindictive as the Devil's, was enough to freeze Hermione on the spot.

He was not glaring, but he needn't be doing so; his eyes were hooded, glowing, so fierce they trapped her against the wall. Her hands shook, and she was groping around for some means of protection as he stalked closer to her. She mewed, cowering, and he snatched at her head and slammed her skull into the wall.

Her body fell limp, her eyes rolling, but Malfoy wasn't done with her yet. After smirking at the pained groan that escaped her mouth, he lifted her off of her buckling knees and twisted her neck around. His fingers were twined through her hair, tight and vicious.

He was close to her face, and she let out a sob, blood seeping from the corners of her cut lips. He focused everything he had to her closed eyes, and despite her natural urge to keep her sanity from being taken by him, she opened her heavy lids slowly.

The fear was visible, and that pleased Malfoy immensely. He knew he looked intimidating to her at this point, after hurting her so, and it would only get worse. She looked like a lamb that knew it was to shortly be slaughtered, and he grinned suddenly, darker than his own father, for just a moment; fleetingly he seemed as if he could be Voldemort himself.

But the moment passed, and when Hermione recognized that Voldemort was the worst she could ever_, ever_ face, Malfoy didn't seem so scary anymore.

He was just another Death Eater.

She narrowed her eyes at him, and Malfoy, sensing the sudden change in her, was livid. He then acted on a whim, pushing all of his raging emotions into the task he had been given, and had thought that he would look forward too.

Hermione's eyes widened as Malfoy shoved her against the wall, savagely attacking her mouth. She protested, but like before, he pinned her down, his tongue dominating her mouth.

She was disgusted, quite frankly, but she was too weak to do anything but make noise. She fought vainly when he grabbed at her wrists and pinned them above her head; she would fight for that, but she couldn't win, no matter how hard she tried.

It was unfortunate for her, because now he had two wrists held down with only one of his hands, while the other was free to do as it wished.

Muffled cried rose in her throat as his hand ripped her ragged shirt off of her shoulder, pulling along with it the strap of her bra. Malfoy fought her harder, biting down on her lip so the stinging pain distracted her. It did, truly, but the newfound cold on her body brought her back to his actions; he was fiddling with the clip of her bra.

It was a step too far for her, and she fought now with her legs. A lucky aim landed her knee between his own two legs, and immediately, he was off of her, doubled over in pain, literally falling over.

"You disgusting _beast_!" she screamed at him, and in her own rage bellowed in fury and kicked him with the energy she had left. She was surprised at how much strength was packed into her action, but she was stunned when Malfoy forgot his pain so quickly and attacked her.

She never saw his reflex, nor heard the malevolent threat streaming from his lips. She only felt her own fear ripping out of her throat as Malfoy tore at the remainder of her clothes.

But before long, everything was gone, and Hermione was unconscious again.

_-x-x-x-_

Hermione woke up to screaming; surprisingly, it was not her own. The aching tremors awoke her body, though, and she was snatched out of her unconsciousness. Staying quiet, trying to ignore her obvious wounds, she listened.

"No, you have to understand me—"

"I don't give a flying fuck, Troy! You have _no say_ in what I do!" Hermione immediately identified this voice as Draco Malfoy's; with the bitter, cold anger his tone held, it was always easy to tell him apart.

"She's too _weak_!"

"What do you think I should do about it, huh? I don't have the means to make her stronger, and quite frankly I think it's ridiculous that I have to!"

"You have to _feed_ her, you idiot."

"No; I refuse to do anything for her benefit. She can rot in her, starve to death and I'd laugh at her for it. If she needs to be fed, you feed her, you pushover."

The snarl in Malfoy's voice was cruel, but in a moment it was gone. She heard footsteps, loud and heavy, storm out of the room. The door slammed with a crack, and it left an unpleasant ringing in her ears.

"I know you're awake, Granger," Troy's voice said softly, breaking the heavy silence.

"Congratulations," she whispered weakly. There was a horrible pain in her mouth, like a spike being drilled slowly into her jaw. It hurt to talk, but then again, it hurt to do anything.

Troy moved, and he knelt down beside her. She heard a distinct clinking sound, before he had his hand gently on her jaw and was instructing her to open her mouth.

"Drink," he directed. She did so without question, knowing this was foolish, but she felt as if there were more important things to save her energy for.

Sweet numbness swept through her body, and she was aware of the emptiness that her body seemed to hold now that the pain was dimmed considerably. A few ragged breaths proceeded before she opened her eyes, slowly, and looked up graciously at Troy.

She had meant to say thank you, but instead; "Why?"

He smiled, rather crookedly, and she noticed the distance in his eyes. "You're asking about Draco, not the potion, aren't you?"

She was, and she nodded. "He hates me," Hermione croaked, her eyes heavy with drunken drowsiness. "Why would he do such a thing to me?"

Troy hesitated for only a moment, before answering. "There is more than one way to reap revenge on another person, Granger. Especially when the other is a girl, and so much weaker than the first."

"It's disgusting," she said at once, her face twisting at the horrible memory of Malfoy's hands all over her and his tongue forced into her mouth. "And it should be disgusting for him, too; I'm _Muggle_-_born_."

Troy sighed and dropped his face into his hands; Hermione noted this unusually weak for a Malfoy. She knew Troy was different though, but still she found this suspicious.

"Draco is…" Troy looked back up at her, and tried to find the right words to describe his cousin. "…suppressed. Bitter. He's very resentful towards a lot of things, and he's very angry. Unfortunately for you, you're the only person he can take it out on, and not get into trouble for doing it."

"So why did you stop him, then?" she asked at once, not at all surprised by Troy's reply.

"He didn't realize what he could've done. He's stronger than he thinks," Troy said quietly.

"I can match him," Hermione murmured, his eyes closing. She was drifting off to sleep, but she refused Troy to have the last known word to this dissection of his cousin.

"Only in wit, Granger. You're far weaker than him when it comes to everything else."

"I'm not," she argued feebly, now fighting to keep her eyes open.

Troy smiled sadly at her, and nodded. "You always will be."

She wanted to reply, to protest to this rather truthful statement, but suddenly the world came crashing down upon her brain again, and she was gone, back into her own secluded world of sleep.

Troy stared down at her, examining her weak, exposed body, and admitted to himself that he needed to be watching Draco whenever he was alone with Hermione Granger. There was so much to take from the girl, and Draco wanted it _all_.

Troy shook his head and withdrew his wand; things were going to be far worse soon enough.

_**-  
-x-x-x-  
-**_

**Author's Notes:** weeeell that chapter is done. It was meant to go on for much longer, much like all of my other chapters, but it would end up being wicked long, like 20 pages. I want to do that, really, but I realize what I need to do for this story.

As the story progresses and the plot deepens, the chapters are going to be really long, because I'm aiming for only fourteen chapters, which means one chapter per story day (dates at the top). I don't know if this will happen, but I would like it too!

I hope you enjoyed the chapter! Thank you to my awesome friend** Weirdly **for betaing this for me! ILY!

**Please review!**


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